


Across the Line

by hope_in_the_dark, mehrto, zepuffer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (again. As usual. I have a preference for 'Ezra' I guess), (someone once told me that they want that tag on a t-shirt and I still think about that every day), Alternate Universe - Human, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Author Projecting onto Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Name is Ezra (Good Omens), Bisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Boys in Skirts, Consent for Kisses!!, Domestic Fluff, Found Family, Gratuitous Description of Noodles, M/M, Marriage, Married Life, Musician Crowley (Good Omens), Neurodivergent Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Song references, Stargazing, crowley has tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25237720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_in_the_dark/pseuds/hope_in_the_dark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/pseuds/mehrto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zepuffer/pseuds/zepuffer
Summary: Ezra is a student in his final year at University College London, and he’s in love with a man he’s never spoken to. For months, Ezra has been tipping (and pining after) a musician named Crowley every time he sees him. He thinks that Crowley hasn’t noticed him, but Crowley has.A love story that begins with, of all things, the saving and handing over of a book.(Written for the Good Omens Mini Bang. Multi-chapter human AU - updates every week until completion!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 445
Kudos: 387
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Mini Bang, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! 
> 
> This fic has been an incredible joy to write so far, and I'm so excited to be able to share it with you! I am indescribably grateful for the mods of the Do It With Style Mini Bang for organizing this event and for putting me into contact with two brilliant artists. They have been my cheerleaders throughout this process and have given me much more than I can ever hope to give back. Art from the [mehrto](https://mehrto.tumblr.com/) is featured in this chapter, and a piece from [zepuffer](https://zepuffer.tumblr.com/) will be a part of a later one! They deserve all the good things this world has to offer. 
> 
> Also, big thanks to my friend [ineffablefool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool/works) for the tech help! And another thank you to my lovely preview reader, without whom I would be lost.
> 
> Onto notes about the fic itself! It is, to my best estimation, very soft and fluffy. Ezra and Crowley both have insecurities, but the moments of tenderness and happiness far outweigh the brief moments of emotional pain. Also, in this story, Ezra is intentionally written as neurodivergent. I have modeled his behaviors and experiences on my own (which is a part of myself I have not yet put into a piece of writing as actual text rather than subtext), but I do not mean to insinuate that Ezra's/my experiences of the world are reflective of every neurodivergent person. I'm simply writing what I know. It's also important to note that the teen rating comes primarily from the use of profanity, but that any potential additional warnings will be added to the notes of relevant chapters.

  
Artwork by [mehrto](https://mehrto.tumblr.com/)

Things had been great before Crowley. Ezra had been living a perfectly ordinary life, getting his degree at University College and trying to work out how to open a bookshop after graduation. He’d been commuting back and forth to class for the better part of three years from the flat he shared with his best friend in the Mile End, and everything had been normal. 

And then Crowley had shown up, singing a cover of a Beatles song — specifically the song “Yesterday,” which Ezra knew from growing up in a house where John, Paul, George, and Ringo could practically be counted among his family members — and smiling at people who dropped money into his guitar case. Ezra had stopped walking to listen and stare, pressing his shoulder into the wall a few metres down the way from where Crowley was playing in an effort to appear nonchalant. He stayed as long as he could, transfixed by a perfect stranger with a nice smile and beautiful hands and a tattoo of a snake that wound its way down his left arm. Ezra had dropped a sweaty pound coin into Crowley’s case that day, and Crowley’s answering smile had driven something hot into the center of Ezra’s chest. 

On this particular afternoon, Crowley was back again, sitting on a stool near the wall. He wasn’t singing today. On the days when he did, Ezra would find himself nearly missing his train home or running into class with thirty seconds to spare. Crowley’s voice had been the reason Ezra had noticed him in the first place, after all, and there was a reason for that. 

Today, though, Crowley was sitting with his head bowed over his guitar, long fingers moving in a complicated dance across the frets. A lock of his dark hair had fallen in front of his eyes, and he hadn’t once looked up in the nearly five minutes Ezra had been watching him. 

It wasn’t like Ezra had never fancied anyone before. He could remember the names of all of the blokes he’d taken a shine to, in fact. But Crowley was different. Most of Ezra’s previous romantic interests had been like him in some way, and Crowley was nothing if not Ezra’s exact opposite. Crowley was loud where Ezra was quiet and flash where Ezra was ordinary. He was far from the type of man Ezra usually fell for. 

Crowley was also different from any of Ezra’s previous crushes in one very important way: Ezra had never spoken to him. 

Ezra had been seeing Crowley a few times a week at the Euston Square Station for nearly three months, and he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to say hello. He’d only learned Crowley’s name because it was scratched in chalk on a small blackboard that rested against Crowley’s stool or microphone. It was always just _Crowley_ , a single name followed by social media usernames that Ezra had no use for. Short, simple, and possibly not even real, but it was all that Ezra had to go on. 

Being slightly in love with a man he’d never had a conversation with was completely mad, and Ezra knew it. He’d tried to forget about Crowley, but he hadn’t been able to. Crowley would always appear again, singing something beautiful and giving Ezra a smile when Ezra dropped a coin into the fake red velvet of his guitar case. 

It was ridiculous that Crowley had come to _mean_ something to Ezra. It never should have happened. But he kept tipping Crowley every time he saw him anyway, and Crowley kept smiling at him, and life went on. 

So Ezra checked his watch and fished a coin out of his pocket, letting it fall against the others that had accumulated in Crowley’s case. He smiled at the top of Crowley's head, not expecting that Crowley would look up for the first time in ten minutes and smile back.

“Thanks, mate.” 

A sort of squeak was the only thing Ezra could come up with by way of answer, and he dropped his eyes to his shoes and scurried away before Crowley could say anything more. 

********

Ezra’s meeting with his professor had gone long, so he was taking a much later train home. He walked into a mostly empty car and sat down in the nearest seat, opening his copy of _King Lear_ as soon as he was settled. An automated voice announced the closing of the doors, but Ezra hardly noticed. He certainly didn’t see the dark-clad shape slip through the doors at the other end of the car, and he would have been perfectly content to carry on in his ignorance if that same shape hadn’t sat down across from him. 

“That’s different from the one you had last week,” said a voice that Ezra had been hearing in his dreams for months. 

_King Lear_ fell to the floor as the train began to move. Beautifully calloused fingers wrapped around the spine before Ezra could think to reach for it, holding it out pages-first. 

“Sorry,” Crowley said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

He was sitting in a sort of sprawl, his guitar case propped against his leg. Various other pieces of equipment were scattered around him. 

“It’s fine.” Ezra’s voice was a whisper at best. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Thank you.” 

When Ezra took the book from Crowley, their fingers brushed. It wasn’t much contact, and it didn’t last long, but Ezra flushed pink from his hairline to his chest anyway. 

“No problem. Anyway, uh. Different book than the one you had last week, innit?” 

“Yes.” Ezra’s fingers were tapping against the cover of the book, flicking out and back down again. He couldn’t get his heart to slow down. 

Crowley laughed, a tiny thing that lit Ezra’s insides on fire. “Sorry. That probably sounds creepier than it is. You just— on Friday, you were holding a red book. I noticed it when you tipped me. That one’s white.” 

“Yeah.” Ezra had never been much good at conversation. “It’s Shakespeare. _King Lear._ I’ve been reading it for class.” 

“Any good?” 

“Not bad.” 

The train screeched to a halt, doors sliding open with a hiss. Ezra jumped, nearly sending his poor book to the floor once more. 

“What happened to the other one?” 

“I, ah. Gave it away.” 

Crowley’s eyes (which were a lovely warm honey-brown, Ezra could see) went wide. “You _what?_ ” 

“A classmate needed it. I had two copies.” 

Someone had taken a seat a few spots down from Ezra. They were clearing their throat in a very pointed way at Crowley, who was very obviously ignoring them. 

“That’s— I mean, shit,” Crowley said. There was a sigh from Ezra’s new neighbor. “Was nice of you.” 

“It was nothing,” Ezra mumbled.

“Not nothing.” Crowley was staring, a little smile on his lips. “You’re kind. I’ve noticed that.” 

Ezra blinked at him. “You’ve noticed?” 

“Course. You tip me every time I see you.” 

Damn. 

“You work hard,” said Ezra. 

“I do, yeah. But you… you help me every time. Every time _I’ve_ seen _you,_ at least. Dunno if you’ve ever slipped by without my noticing.” 

If Ezra had been better at playing things cool, he’d have said something like _“Oh, I don’t know if it’s been every time. Can’t be sure.”_

Ezra had never been good at playing things cool. 

“It’s… yes. It’s every time.” 

Crowley’s half-smile widened into a grin. He ran a hand through his hair, and Ezra’s collar got uncomfortably tight. 

“See? You _are_ kind.” 

“I try to be.” 

The train stopped at another station, and Crowley cocked his head to listen to the name of the upcoming stop. 

“Next one’s mine,” he said. “And I’ve realized I haven’t gotten your name.” 

“Ezra,” Ezra croaked. 

Crowley stuck out a beautiful hand. “Hi, Ezra. I’m Crowley.” 

“I know,” Ezra said, slipping his broad fingers between Crowley’s thin ones.

Crowley laughed again, and the lights in the train car seemed dark in comparison. Ezra had never kissed anyone, but he had the distinct feeling that he’d very much like to give it a go with Crowley. 

“Good,” Crowley said with a wink that made Ezra’s body flash from hot to cold and back again. 

“You’re an excellent musician,” Ezra said altogether too quickly. “I like your voice especially. You’re— _it’s_ beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Ezra’s fingers were still flicking back and forth, tapping the cover of his book like he was playing an imaginary piano. He’d always done that, and sometimes people asked about it. His parents had told him to sit still about a thousand times a day while he was growing up, but he’d never been able to. Fingers moving, hands twitching, body wiggling or rocking back and forth. It helped him think, kept him calm. 

Crowley either hadn’t noticed this or had chosen not to comment, and Ezra liked him all the more for it. 

A chime sounded through the car, and Crowley climbed to his feet and began picking up his various pieces of equipment. A rucksack was slipped onto his back, a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. One hand was soon occupied with his guitar case, and the other wrapped around an amplifier. 

The train slid to a stop, but Crowley didn’t move toward the door. He waited for Ezra to look up at him, and then he smiled. 

“Bye, Ezra.” 

He slipped away before Ezra could say anything in return, stepping onto the platform with strides that were quick and confident. There was a strange swing in Crowley’s gait, an exaggerated pivot of the hips that Ezra thought looked slightly painful. It was an odd kind of beautiful, though. Just like Crowley. 

Ezra watched Crowley until he disappeared up the stairs. For the rest of the ride, _King Lear_ sat unopened on Ezra’s lap, forgotten in the fog that had filled Ezra’s mind. It smelled like subtle cologne and looked like bright smiles, sounded like a bright laugh and felt like Crowley’s fingers brushing against Ezra’s skin. 

Talking to Crowley had made Ezra feel a little less insane in one respect and far more insane in others. At least he’d exchanged words with the man he’d been mooning over for months, so there was some legitimacy to that at last. On the other hand, talking to Crowley had been very bad for Ezra’s ability to think about things that were not Crowley-related. His voice was nearly as nice speaking as it was when he was singing, and he’d been friendly. He’d also _noticed_ Ezra. Noticed him, seen what color book he’d been carrying. Maybe he’d even been smiling at Ezra on purpose, which was both a completely mad thought and one that Ezra couldn’t seem to get rid of. 

This, Ezra decided when the train stopped at his station, was very not good.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra has his second-ever conversation with Crowley and lands himself a date. He chooses to take Crowley to the coffee shop owned by his found-family dads, which works out better than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick notes! I mentioned this before, but it's important to note that Ezra's perception of the world and neurodivergent behaviors are based on my own. No two brains are alike, but for the purposes of this fic, Ezra has mine. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this chapter! Thank you for reading - your kudos and comments mean the world to me. 
> 
> Warnings: language, brief mention of a previous encounter with biphobia, discussion of a household that doesn't understand a neurodivergent child

Two pound coins fell from Ezra’s fingers as he walked by, clinking against the other coins in Crowley’s guitar case. He’d waited until Crowley was in between songs to leave his tip today, and he was trying very hard to convince himself that this was only because he had a train to catch and not at all because he was hoping that Crowley might smile at him again. 

Crowley _did_ smile, and Ezra’s cheeks flushed with warmth. 

And then Crowley said, “Do you like coffee?” and Ezra forgot how to breathe. 

“W-what?” 

Crowley’s smile was making Ezra’s stomach squirm. 

“Coffee,” Crowley said again. “Do you like it?” 

“Not really,” Ezra replied, and Crowley made a surprised noise. “It’s much too bitter.” 

“Not all the time.” Crowley shifted his weight forward, leaning toward Ezra. “They put all sorts of rubbish in it if you want them to. Milk, sugar, caramel, chocolate. Things like that.” 

“I know,” Ezra said slowly. “All of that doesn’t seem to be enough, somehow.” 

He could feel Crowley watching his face, could tell that Crowley was trying to catch his eye. 

This was usually the point when things started to fall apart for Ezra. He didn’t avoid eye contact to be rude — in fact, his parents had done a smashing job of making sure that politeness was practically woven into his DNA — but there was something about looking someone in the eye that had never been anywhere close to comfortable for Ezra. He was able to do it when he needed to, but in any other circumstance, he avoided eye contact like the plague. People tended to perceive this as standoffish and on occasion, offensive, so Ezra waited for Crowley to say something dismissive and go back to playing the guitar. 

Crowley didn’t do that, though, and the smile that Ezra was looking at didn’t so much as falter. 

“What do you like, then?” Crowley asked. 

“Sorry?” 

“I’m assuming you like to drink something,” Crowley said, and the corners of his lips curled up into something approaching a smirk. “If it’s not coffee, what is it?” 

“Uh,” said Ezra. “I quite like tea. And I’m partial to hot chocolate, but only if it’s good.” 

Crowley laughed. “Okay. In that case: would you like to get tea with me, Ezra?” 

For one of the first times in his life, Ezra’s fingers stopped moving. They froze mid-flick, and Ezra forced himself to raise his eyes to Crowley’s. Not for long, just for a fraction of a second. Long enough to see if Crowley was having him on. 

It did not, insofar as Ezra could tell, look like Crowley was anything other than completely serious, and that did not make any kind of sense. 

People did not ask Ezra to tea. This was not a thing that had ever happened, and so Ezra’s mind had no prior experience from which to draw an appropriate response. 

So Ezra said, “Why?” 

Crowley’s smile dropped away. “I just thought— you know what, never mind. You get home safe, ‘kay?” 

Shit. Ezra’s fingers started moving again, drumming against the sides of his thighs. He’d done something wrong, something to upset Crowley, and it had something to do with his question. 

“No, wait,” Ezra said. “I would like to, ah. To get tea with you. Yes.” 

“Really?” There was skepticism in Crowley’s voice, but it was blurred by something brighter. 

“I’m afraid that I might not be very good company,” Ezra said softly. “I haven’t exactly done this before. Just so you know.” 

“Done what?” 

“Gone to tea with a stranger.” 

Crowley’s mouth twisted, and Ezra dropped his gaze to his shoes. Cream-colored Converse, the same kind he’d been wearing for nearly a decade now. He’d scuffed them today, apparently, because there was a new black mark on the rubber toe. 

“Are we strangers?” Crowley asked, and when Ezra looked up at his face again, he was smiling. “Funny. Thought we might’ve almost been friends.” 

“We’ve had one conversation, Crowley,” Ezra said. “One. And it was on a train, and it wasn’t very long at all.” 

“You’ve been helping me buy food for three months,” Crowley pointed out. “And we haven’t had one conversation, we’ve had two.” 

Ezra raised an eyebrow. 

“Well, we’re having the second now, aren’t we?” Crowley asked. He punctuated this with another smile, which made Ezra decide that his shoes and the dingy Tube station floor were much safer things to look at. 

“I suppose.” 

“See?” Crowley slipped his guitar strap over his shoulder and leaned the instrument against the wall. He knelt by his guitar case, scooping out the coins and bills and placing them into a pouch. “Almost friends.” 

“Do you usually make friends like this?” 

Crowley stopped putting money into his bag and glanced up at Ezra. 

“Not usually, no,” Crowley admitted. 

For some reason, Ezra hadn’t expected Crowley’s answer to be an honest one. He’d thought that Crowley might take the opportunity to make some sort of joking remark or at the very least say something typical of the cool, suave, artistic-type bloke that he seemed to be, but he hadn’t. He’d been truthful, and that made Ezra start thinking again about how nice it might be to kiss Crowley. 

Which was ridiculous, so Ezra tried to forget about it and said, “Oh.” 

“You’re different, though, if you don’t mind me saying.” 

Ezra’s eyes narrowed. “How so?” 

“Fairly simple, actually,” Crowley said as he placed his guitar into its now currency-free case and snapped it shut. “I fancy you.” 

“Ah,” said Ezra, who was trying to remember that standing upright and not falling over was a thing that he was supposed to know how to do. “You… you what?” 

“I fancy you,” Crowley said again, and Ezra very suddenly became certain that he must have fallen down the stairs and hit his head on his way into the station. “And I want to get to know you better, if that’s okay.” 

“That’s—” Ezra’s mind was making funny noises, none of which were easily translatable into words in the English language. “Goodness, yes.” 

Crowley wrinkled his nose, and little creases appeared between his eyebrows. “Sorry. Bit forward, I know, but I’ve learned that sometimes that’s for the best.” 

“Have you,” Ezra said faintly.

“See, I’ve made the mistake of asking a bloke out to coffee before, very much meaning it in a romantic way, only for him to reveal that he had a girlfriend and assumed that I wanted to be his friend.” Crowley packed his microphone into a small black box and shoved it into his duffel bag. “So I decided that I’d be more direct going forward. Save us all the trouble, you know. Not that I'm opposed to having friends, there's nothing wrong with friends, but. That's not really the goal here.” 

Ezra felt like someone had tossed him in with the laundry and set the cycle to spin. 

“I’m gay,” Ezra announced (a little too loudly for the public setting they were in, if he was honest with himself), and Crowley grinned at him. 

“Oh, good.” Crowley’s beautiful fingers were playing with little knobs on the side of his microphone stand. “I’m not, for the record — I’m bisexual. ‘S that a problem?” 

“No,” Ezra said with not a small amount of confusion. “Is it usually?” 

“Sometimes. I don’t follow through on dates with people who have a problem with it, though, so I’m glad you don’t.” The microphone stand slid downward into itself, and Crowley shoved it into a bag before dumping it into the duffel as well. “So. Tea, then?” 

“Uh.” Ezra swallowed. “Yes, I’d… yes. When?” 

Crowley was bent over at the waist, coiling a cord around his hand. He looked over his shoulder and winked, which made Ezra feel like someone had submerged his insides in hot water. 

“What’re you up to now?” 

“Going home,” Ezra said even as he realized that his usual train had definitely left without him on it.

“Any chance I could tempt you to modify those plans?” 

“You might,” Ezra replied, giving Crowley a small smile. 

“So if, say, I proposed that you might go to tea with me now, and then go home? Would that be tempting enough?” 

“Sounds perfectly lovely,” said Ezra, and Crowley laughed. “Temptation accomplished.” 

“Easy temptation, that.” 

“Well, I do like tea.” 

Crowley shook his head, grinning as he hoisted his duffel bag onto his shoulder. “Oh, I see. In it for the tea, then?” 

“Not entirely,” Ezra confessed. 

“Good,” said Crowley. “Me either.” 

_Shoes,_ Ezra told himself. _Look at your shoes. Think about your shoes. Do not think about kissing Crowley._

In a very pointed refusal of this command, Ezra’s brain conjured up the idea that Crowley’s lips would taste like tea if he waited a little longer. 

Thankfully, this particular line of thinking was interrupted by Crowley raising his guitar in the direction of the station steps and saying, “This is your neck of the woods, yeah? Got any recommendations on places for a decent cuppa?” 

“Guh,” Ezra said. “Yes. Yes, follow me.” 

*********

Ezra decided to bring Crowley to his favorite cafe, a small place just around the corner from the end of campus. A rainbow flag fluttered over the door twelve months out of the year (Crowley had shot Ezra a lopsided grin when he’d seen it), and there was a well-stocked bookshelf that occupied one of the walls. It was quiet enough to be a place Ezra could get some reading done, and it was as close a thing to home in London that Ezra had outside of his flat in the Mile End.

The shop also happened to stock excellent quality tea at a reasonably affordable price, which Ezra was trying to convince himself was the only reason he’d brought Crowley here. It wasn’t that he thought of the shop — and Mark and James, who owned the shop and had been together for longer than Ezra had been alive — as a part of himself, and that he wanted to show Crowley the things that were important to him. That would be silly for a first date. Ridiculous for a third (second? Ezra wasn't sure how to count these things) conversation. It hardly bore thinking about, really. 

When Ezra walked through the door, Mark’s salt-and-pepper curls were just visible above the top of the counter. There was a metallic clanking sound followed by some mild cursing, and Ezra saw Crowley’s slim shoulders shake with silent laughter. 

“Hello, Mark,” Ezra said, and the clanking and cursing stopped as Mark’s smiling face appeared over the counter. 

“Hi, kid.” Mark’s eyes came to rest on Ezra first before sliding over to Crowley. One well-shaped eyebrow raised itself into an arch, and Ezra could see a question forming on Mark’s lips. 

“Are you having trouble with the sink again?” Ezra asked before Mark’s question could slip free. 

“I think we’ll have to call a proper plumber this time,” Mark said. He was speaking to Ezra but looking at Crowley, his suspicious squint causing creases in the skin at the corner of his eyes. “Jamie gave it a shot earlier, but you know how he is with these things.” 

“This is Mark Powers,” Ezra said to Crowley, who was unloading his gear onto the nearest table and chairs. “He and his husband James own this place.” 

“Hey, mate,” Crowley said, fixing Mark with a disarming-looking smile as he sauntered up to the counter, one of his beautiful hands stretched out in greeting. “Anthony Crowley.” 

_Anthony,_ Ezra said to himself inside of his head. _Anthony Crowley._

Mark took Crowley’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Friend of Ezra’s, are you?” 

“Something like that,” Crowley said, and Ezra felt his cheeks going red. 

Mark peeked around Crowley to get a look at Ezra. His mouth split into a wide smile at the sight of Ezra’s blush-colored face. 

“Usual, Ezra?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Chai for me,” Crowley said. “One sugar, bit of almond milk if you have it. And I’ll be paying — give me a moment.” 

He was halfway back to the table, his smile pressing dimples into his cheeks, when Mark said, “Don’t worry about it. Ezra gets free drinks often enough, and seeing as you’re the first person he’s ever brought in with him, I’d say you’ve qualified yourself for one.” 

Crowley’s hands came to rest on the tabletop. His fingers flexed forward, going tense for a moment, and Ezra felt something close to fear strike through his heart. This _was_ too personal for a first date, wasn’t it? He’d gone and fucked this up already. 

But then Crowley laughed and said, “That’d make me look like a cheap date, Mark. Trying to make a good impression here,” and Ezra’s heart nearly beat its way out of his chest. 

“Well,” Mark replied with a laugh of his own, “personally, I like a man who tips well. Speaks highly of his character. My Jamie tipped our waiter a tenner on a thirty dollar cheque on our first dinner date, and I knew I was in for it.” 

Crowley’s fingers made themselves busy, unzipping the top of his duffel bag and pulling out the black pouch where he’d stored the money he’d made busking. He pulled out a five-pound note, folding it into his palm as he walked back to the counter. 

“What’s a fiver on a free cheque say about me, then?” Crowley asked as he slipped the bill into the glass tip jar. 

“It says you’re a keeper,” Mark said, and his eyes locked on Ezra’s face for a moment. He turned away a moment later, and his voice was replaced by the sound of running water and the soft tinkling of metal-on-ceramic.

“You hear that?” Crowley asked Ezra with a smirk as he slid into one of the chairs that was free of musical equipment. Crowley moved like water, fluid and mesmerising, and Ezra became conscious of the fact that he’d been staring. “Mark says I’m a keeper.” 

“That remains to be seen,” Ezra said, punctuating the statement with a sniff and a slight upturn of his nose. 

Crowley’s laugh was bright and warm, and it filled Ezra’s lungs on Ezra’s next breath. 

“Well, better be looking out for it, then,” Crowley said softly. “Because I am, you know. He’s not wrong.” 

“Tea’s up, Ez,” Mark called from behind the counter, which saved Ezra from having to come up with a response to _that._

“I’ve got it,” Ezra said, keeping his eyes trained on the floor as he made his way over to the counter to retrieve the two steaming mugs. 

When he got there, Mark was tapping at the screen of his smartphone (using only one finger instead of his thumbs, which always made Ezra laugh at him). He glanced up from his texting for just long enough to give Ezra another eyebrow-waggle, which Ezra pointedly ignored. 

“Tell James I say hello, will you?”

“Oh, believe me, kid, I already have.” 

Wonderful. James knew that Crowley was here, too. Just what Ezra needed, having both of them on his back about this. 

_It_ **_is_ ** _what you need,_ Ezra’s mind pointed out. _You need someone who loves you to know that this happened, right? Someone to talk to about it after it’s done. Isn’t that, like, half of the reason you brought Crowley here?_

Ezra told his brain to put a sock in it and put Crowley’s tea down on the table. 

“One Chai,” Ezra said, settling into his seat across the table with his own tea (Earl Grey with three sugars and a decently large splash of cream). “Thank you, by the way.” 

Crowley blew on his tea, sending ripples across the dark surface. “What for?” 

“Tipping Mark.” Ezra took a sip of his tea. “He’s… well, he’s important to me.” 

Crowley’s warm eyes seemed to be trying to bore holes in Ezra’s forehead, so Ezra kept his gaze very firmly fixed on Crowley’s hands. 

His own hands were wrapped around his mug, tapping out the beat that even he couldn’t quite follow. Crowley still hadn’t mentioned this, the constant flicking-rubbing-tapping-twitching, but Ezra knew that it was bound to come up. It usually did, sooner or later, and sometimes the answer _“I’ve gathered over the years that my brain doesn’t quite work like most other brains, and the hand-movements are little stims that help keep me calm and focused. Sometimes there are bigger ones, too, and those are pretty hard to miss,”_ wasn’t what people wanted to hear. 

If Crowley was what he said he was, if he was really what Mark had called him… if Crowley was a keeper, someone Ezra shouldn’t let go of, he would have to be someone who didn’t look at Ezra with pity because of these things. He would have to let Ezra explain, and he would have to accept it. And he’d have to not run away if Ezra had one of his episodes where everything got too bright and too loud and too scratchy and too much to handle. If Ezra had an extreme reaction to something, if he started flapping his hands and hyperventilating and bolting from public spaces, Crowley would have to stay with him. To be a keeper, to be someone Ezra could even _want_ to keep, he’d have to be more than okay with all of that. All of those things were pieces of Ezra’s reality, parts of how Ezra experienced the world, and Ezra was tired of being belittled for that. He was tired of _“sit still”_ and _“use your words”_ and _“be polite”_ and _“people won’t understand why you do that, I don’t understand why you do that.”_ Those things were things he’d left behind, words that dwelled in a cottage outside of London. They floated in the air and were perpetually on the tongues of the man and woman who lived there. 

Ezra had left home and made his home somewhere else for a reason. And he wasn’t about to keep anyone who wasn’t prepared to be with all of him, all of the quirks and tics and unusual bits. Anyone who couldn’t be with all of Ezra didn’t deserve to be kept by him. 

Crowley’s voice snapped Ezra out of his thoughts. It was quieter than normal, but the words themselves were loud in a different sort of way. 

“I know he’s important,” Crowley said. “Picked up on that fairly quickly, actually. You two act like family.” 

“He and James are just about the closest thing I’ve got to parents in the city,” Ezra mumbled into his tea. “My other parents — the ones I’m related to by blood — they live in a small village about an hour from here. And they aren’t… I don’t know. They do their best, and they raised me well, but they don’t make any effort to understand me. I’m not really a priority to them, I suppose.” 

Belatedly, Ezra realized that he’d essentially confessed to bringing Crowley home to meet his father _on the first date,_ but Crowley didn’t seem bothered by this information. 

Instead, Crowley traced a knot in the wood of the table with a long finger and said, “Blood doesn’t make family. ‘S good that you know that.” 

There was a loud bang from the counter below the sink, which was immediately chased by a series of foul words, and Crowley smiled at Ezra over the rim of his cup. 

“I like your found-family dad, for what it’s worth.” 

Ezra blinked at him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, taking another gulp of his tea. “Can only hope he’ll come to like me, too.”

“Oh,” said Ezra, the thought of Crowley coming back here with him (and coming along to the Powers’ for dinner, thumbing through Mark's record collection, laughing with James in the kitchen, sitting with Ezra on the sofa) rendering him momentarily speechless. 

“I hope he’ll have the chance to like me,” Crowley continued, and for a split second, Ezra made the conscious effort to look him in the eye. He’d done that twice in one day, which was probably some sort of record. “I hope I’ll see him again. He does make a bloody good cup of tea, after all.” 

“He does,” Ezra said with a smile. “And I think… I think that you will see him again.” 

The smile that spread across Crowley’s face at that was nearly audible. “I’d like that.” 

“G-good,” Ezra said, and he watched as Crowley set his hand palm-down on the table. He was reaching forward, reaching _out,_ like he wanted Ezra to take it. 

So Ezra did. He pulled the fingers of his right hand very slowly away from the sides of his mug, flexed them once, and then set the tips of them against Crowley’s fingernails. 

Crowley’s hand moved closer, his calloused fingertips coming to rest at the top of Ezra’s palm, and Ezra’s pulse quickened. 

“So,” Crowley said with a tone of nonchalance that seemed a little too forced to be entirely real. “I know you’re at uni for something having to do with Shakespeare — by the way, I Googled _King Lear,_ I guess it’s one of his gloomy ones, eh? — but I don’t know for what specifically.” 

“English,” Ezra said shakily. 

“Should’ve guessed.” Crowley’s hand moved sideways slightly, and Ezra’s fingers came in contact with the wooden tabletop. But they were bracketed still bracketed by warmth, and the feel of Crowley’s skin against his was still setting Ezra’s nerves alight.

Crowley’s fingers were filling the gaps between Ezra’s. They were long and slender in comparison to Ezra’s heavier ones, and Ezra loved the picture that their hands made together. It was almost startling, though, to see that Crowley’s hand fit so well with his own. It looked like the spaces between Ezra’s fingers were the mould from which Crowley’s were created, and Ezra had to crush down the thought that maybe their hands fit so well because _they,_ the people the hands belonged to, fit together too. 

Slowly, Ezra pushed his hand forward, slotting their hands together. His three longest fingers came to rest against the backs of Crowley’s knuckles and he pushed down gently. Crowley pushed back, a barely-there pressure, and when Ezra looked up, Crowley was smiling. 

“Did you go to university?” Ezra managed to choke out. 

“Nah,” Crowley said, somehow grinning his way through the words. “Didn’t see a need. Don’t want to do anything that requires a degree — passions lie elsewhere, I guess.” 

“Ah,” Ezra said, and Crowley squeezed his hand again. 

When Ezra and Crowley left the cafe a few hours later, Crowley’s hands were once again full of his gear, and Ezra was holding his phone. It had buzzed three times over the course of his date, but he was determined not to check it until he and Crowley had gone their separate ways. 

“I’m actually off to a gig,” Crowley said apologetically, stopping at the street corner nearest to the same Tube station that they’d left hours before. “Sorry.” 

“Please don’t apologize.” Ezra itched to take Crowley’s hand, and he would have done if it wouldn’t have required a tremendous amount of resituating. “I had a lovely time.” 

“Let’s do it again,” Crowley said immediately. “Dinner, maybe.” 

_Kiss me,_ Ezra didn’t say. He said “Yes,” instead, and Crowley’s face lit up with a smile. 

Goodness, Ezra could watch Crowley smile for years. It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. 

“Shit,” Crowley said suddenly. “Late. ‘M gonna be late.” 

Ezra laughed, his middle two fingers tapping the center of his palm every half second in a happy rhythm. “Go, then.” 

“Going,” Crowley said, and he started to walk backward at a speed that far exceeded what Ezra thought to be safe. “Bye, Ezra.” 

“Goodbye.”

It wasn’t until Ezra had found a seat on the Tube that he opened his phone and clicked through his unread messages. 

[Mark] _He’s very handsome. Where did you find him?_

[James] _You’re coming for dinner on Saturday I want to hear about this bloke of yours_

[Anathema] _WHO'S THE GUITAR BLOKE???_ _Mark ratted you out_

Ezra smiled at the screen before locking his phone and slipping it back into his bag. Mark and James could hear about Crowley over dinner, and Anathema would almost certainly tackle him and bombard him with questions the second he walked into their flat regardless of whether or not he answered her message. They could all wait until he got home, because he had something — some _one_ — much more important to think about on the train ride home. 

But it was a good thing, he figured, to have a family who cared. It was a very good thing. 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Found-family shenanigans, an explanation of touch, and a dinner date with a beautiful boy. 
> 
> Featuring Crowley in a skirt (and my favorite outfit I've ever written out).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This chapter has a frankly ridiculous amount of discussion of meals that include some form of noodles, which is a weird thing that I didn't notice till after I'd finished writing it. That's not important to the plot, but I'm noting it anyway (for Reasons or no reason, I don't really know. Ignore me). Also, as I mentioned in the summary: Crowley wears a skirt in this chapter - petition for society to encourage the beauty of not-women in skirts/dresses, by the way - and the outfit I designed for him is my favorite one I've ever put him in. If you like it (or any other part of this chapter or any other), please yell at me in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://hope-inthedark.tumblr.com/) about it! Also, here is blanket permission for art of any kind should you feel so inclined to make it. 
> 
> One more brief thing: I want all of you to know that every single comment I get brings me unparalleled and unbridled joy! My personal life's a bit in shambles at the moment, so all of your words are so _so_ appreciated! I'm a few hundred comments behind on replies, but I'm working on catching up, I promise.
> 
> Warnings: language, mention of a household that doesn't understand neurodivergency, expression of insecurities, brief mention of homophobia/prejudice against people who choose gender non-conforming clothing

“Crowley isn’t my bloke,” Ezra said over his shoulder as he scooped more pasta onto his plate. Behind him at the kitchen table, James snorted into his wine. 

“You want him to be, though.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I—” Ezra sighed and sprinkled parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes over his plate. “That doesn’t matter, does it?” 

“Blimey, are you being thick on purpose?” This was Anathema, who had taken up her usual role of unhelpfully pitching in on the side of Ezra’s found-dads. “Wanting something doesn’t make it happen, but you should at least be real with yourself about it.” 

“Be nice,” Mark scolded with all the weariness of someone who’d been fielding these types of arguments for years (which, it must be noted, he actually had been). Then, to Ezra, “She’s got a point there, kid.” 

“Then yes, I would like Crowley to be… my, well. My something.” 

“He is remarkably good-looking,” Mark said as Ezra once again took his seat at the table. He reached for James’ hand, gave it a single squeeze. “ _ Gorgeous _ hair. Bit like yours, babes.” 

Ezra scowled into his pasta and reminded himself of all of the reasons why it had been a bad idea to come here. And then Anathema poked him in the shoulder with the back end of her fork, and he found himself remembering all of the additional reasons why allowing her to come along had been an even worse idea. 

“You’re gonna tell us about him, aren’t you?” she asked, giving him a grin when he looked up. 

“I’ve already told all there is to tell.” Ezra punctuated this with a sniff, which earned him a chuckle from Mark. 

“I’m sure Anathema’s got the full story, but you’ve not given it to me and Jamie yet.” 

“He’s a busker,” Ezra said snippily. “I fancy him. He fancies me, apparently. He is very nice, and he has the loveliest hands and an excellent singing voice, and we have had exactly two total conversations.” 

One of Mark’s eyebrows shot upward. “You two got on like a house on fire.” 

“Yes, well.” 

“Two conversations?” James asked. 

“Yes.” Ezra speared a runaway penne and stuck it in his mouth. “So you can understand why I am not calling him ‘my bloke,’ and you also see why I have kept my hopes at an acceptably low level.” 

“One of those conversations lasted for a few hours,” Anathema pointed out. “And ended in a dinner invitation.” 

“A dinner invitation?” James and Mark asked in perfect unison. 

“Yes.” 

One of James’ big hands landed on Ezra’s shoulder. “Good on you, Ez.” 

Ezra didn’t exactly know how to bring up his concerns about the fact that Crowley hadn’t asked for his phone number, and he was even more hesitant to mention that he hadn’t seen Crowley in the few days since their coffee date and therefore had realized that he had no way of getting into contact with him. If Crowley wanted to disappear, he could do so. He could start playing in other Tube stations, and Ezra would never know. He wouldn’t be able to track Crowley down without a tremendous amount of legwork, a large number of unnecessary rides to parts of the city he had no need to visit, and a fair bit of luck besides. 

So instead of voicing any of this, Ezra shoved another forkful of pesto into his mouth and waited for the conversation to turn to another topic. It was just easier that way. It was better if James and Mark didn’t know he was worried, because then he could let them be happy for him without bringing in a metaphorical raincloud to soak the whole affair in doubt. They were always proud of him, of course — they loved him, looked after him, and came to every event that he was even slightly a part of — but they’d always been nearly-silently curious about the state of his romantic engagements. They didn’t ever pester him, didn’t ask him about it outright, but Ezra had long known that they wanted to. And then he’d gone and brought his first-ever proper date into the shop, and he’d gotten their hopes up. 

When it came down to it, Ezra’s heart was a silly, hopeful, safe-seeking thing. And it was looking for Crowley, trying to reach out and merge itself with the perfectly tuned and slightly reckless and altogether not-safe heart that lived in Crowley’s chest, and that was terrifying. 

There were times when Anathema was a bit of a pest, but she had always had a knack for knowing when Ezra was getting overwhelmed. This was one of those times, and blessedly, she recognized it as such. Her hand slipped onto Ezra’s knee and gave it a squeeze. 

And then she said, “So, James, any luck with the supply problem from the new roastery?” and Ezra felt the tension that had been building in his chest begin to decrease.

The cafe was an easy and amazingly effective distraction, and Ezra was able to finish his dinner without having to say anything other than small words of agreement or indignation in response to Mark and James’ business troubles. And in the backseat of Mark’s car on the way home, Anathema took Ezra’s hand. Her hand was smaller than his, and thin like Crowley’s, and the pads of her fingers wrapped around the space on the side of his pinky finger. It was a silent comfort, something warm and concrete, and Ezra was grateful for it. 

He had always liked touch. He was sensitive to the way things felt against his skin, but he liked being touched. He liked the tight pressure of hugs, the way someone else’s fingers felt between his own, the gentleness of a pat on the back or a hand on his shoulder. For Ezra, being able to touch was an essential thing. It was how he learned about the world. The world was colorful and bright and loud and altogether too much sometimes, so he tried to turn it into something else. The world could become comprehensible, just a little, if Ezra could make it into a series of textures and pressures and caresses. Touch taught him what he liked and didn’t like. And when it came to people, touch helped him there, too. He couldn’t always read tones of voice or facial expressions with any degree of accuracy — that was another thing his parents hadn’t understood, so through years of misinterpreting others’ verbal and nonverbal expressions, Ezra had eventually gained a better grasp on all of it — but he could understand touches. There was a difference between touches that were accidental or congratulatory or calming or frustrated, and Ezra could feel the slight distinctions.

Slowly, Ezra shifted his thumb downward so it rested against Anathema’s wrist, just over her pulse point. Her heart was beating steadily, a rhythmic thumping that vibrated through his finger, and he focused on that. Mark was saying something, making some kind of joke, and Ezra managed to catch enough of it that he could give his found-father an authentic smile. Anathema was laughing, a sound like music, and Ezra felt her heartbeat speed up momentarily. 

Unwittingly, Ezra’s mind drifted toward Crowley. That hand in his, those callouses rough against his skin. The bumps and ridges of the bones of Crowley’s hands, the soft heat that formed between their palms. He wondered how it would feel to kiss Crowley, if those hands would land on his shoulders or trace the roundness of his jaw, if Crowley’s lips were warm like his hands. 

This train of thought accomplished nothing and was fairly ridiculous, but good God, he hoped that Crowley had been serious about dinner. 

*********

Ezra crossed the street and walked down the pavement toward a neon green sign that just said ‘Noodles.’ His fingers were tapping against the sides of his thighs, and the sound of his too-fast heartbeat was echoing in his ears, drowning out the sound of Mile End traffic. He was almost to the door, hand reaching for it, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. 

Ezra’s stomach tied itself into complicated knots as he stepped to the side of the entrance to the restaurant, fumbling for his mobile. The knots only got worse when he saw that he had one unopened message from Crowley (whose number he had only gotten earlier that day, when Crowley had stopped singing and playing in the middle of the chorus to some folksy-sounding song in order to ask Ezra to dinner and punch his mobile number into Ezra’s phone). 

_ He’s cancelling,  _ Ezra thought miserably, but he keyed in his password anyway. He’d have to see the words for them to be true. 

It wasn’t, oddly enough, anything close to a cancellation. 

[Crowley]  _ I like the bowtie. very Eleventh Doctor of you _

Ezra flushed a vibrant shade of red, felt it burn the tip of his nose and the tops of his cheeks. He checked up and down the street, trying to catch a glimpse of dark hair or a crooked smile or a hip-swinging walk, but he came up empty. Crowley could see him, but he couldn’t see Crowley.

So he typed back  _ Where are you? _ and jumped half out of his skin when he heard the chime of a text-tone from over his shoulder. He spun around to find Crowley stepping out of the street and onto the sidewalk, handsome face shining with a grin. 

“Was on the other side of the street,” Crowley said as he tucked his mobile into the pocket of his skirt. “Hi.” 

“You look beautiful,” said Ezra. 

It occurred to Ezra that perhaps that sort of comment wasn’t within the bounds of what social norms dictated. Crowley’s mouth had fallen open slightly, but there was still a smile-shaped curvature to it, so Ezra decided that he hadn’t done anything too terribly wrong. 

“You too,” Crowley managed after a few long moments of stunned silence. “Like I said. Bowtie, ‘s nice. You look, uh. Really good.” 

“Anathema — she’s my flatmate, I’m not certain that I’ve mentioned her by name before — said that I should wear my blue one,” Ezra said, reaching up to fiddle with the corner of his tie with nervous fingers. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was still talking or why he was saying  _ this  _ of all things, and he was even less clear on why he was having this conversation with Crowley outside of the noodle shop instead of inside. They were supposed to be going to dinner, not chatting about bowties. “She said the beige tartan would be too similar to my jumper.” 

Crowley looked him over with a critical eye, one corner of his mouth jumping up into a smirk. “I like the blue.” 

“Oh,” Ezra said, and he felt the blush in his cheeks begin to spread down his neck. His whole body would be blood-hot in a moment if he wasn’t careful. “Good. I thought… well, you know. Going to dinner is a step up from coffee, isn’t it? So I thought I should dress accordingly.” 

Crowley laughed. It was a bright sound that ran down the dark street, and it made Ezra forget for a moment that he was hungry. 

“I did, too,” Crowley said, the words riding the coattails of his laugh. He spun in a circle, and his black skirt flared out in a circle around him. “Thought I’d see how this went over.” 

Ezra cocked his head. “How were you thinking it would go over?” 

“Dunno.” Crowley shrugged. “I’ve gotten mixed reactions in the past. Makes for a good test, I s’pose, but mostly I just… just like wearing it.” 

“Well, you look very handsome in it,” Ezra said firmly. “I like it quite a lot.” 

“Good to know.” 

“Really,” Ezra insisted. “I like it. I imagine I’d like it if I saw it in a shop, but I confess that I like it especially on you.” 

Even in the strange lighting, Ezra could see the tops of Crowley’s ears turn pink. Crowley didn’t shy away, though, didn’t duck his head or get embarrassed. Instead, he stepped forward and held out his hand. Wiggled his fingers, shot Ezra a lopsided grin. 

“Thanks,” Crowley said when Ezra took his hand. Whether he was thanking Ezra for the compliment or for holding his hand, Ezra couldn’t be sure. And then he tugged Ezra toward the door, his skirt making a delightful soft swishing sound as he walked. “So. Tell me about these noodles.” 

“They’re the best I’ve found on this side of town. And they’re open twenty-four hours, if you can believe that. Anathema has some sort of app on her mobile, and sometimes she will have someone deliver noodles to our flat at half two in the morning. It’s absurd.” 

Crowley gave a thoughtful sniff. “Smells good.” 

They gave their order to the older gentleman behind the counter (spicy noodles with pork for Crowley, a bowl of beef pho for Ezra) and took a seat at one of the small tables that were pressed against the wall. The restaurant didn’t really have enough floor space for seating, but they’d put it there anyway. The tables themselves were made of hard white plastic, and the chairs were all more than a little wobbly. There was also a wheeled cart in the corner behind the last table, stuffed to capacity with stacks of paper napkins, buckets of plastic silverware, and packets of chopsticks. 

It wasn’t an upscale place, but it was comfortable, and Ezra loved it. When Crowley had asked him where he wanted to meet for a late meal (he’d stayed to catch the after-work rush on the Underground, and he’d needed some time to go home and drop his things after that), Ezra had thought of his local noodle bar. He was a student, after all, and Crowley was a busker. Neither of them had much money to throw around. 

Crowley sauntered back to the table with his hands full of napkins and forks and spoons and chopsticks, and Ezra couldn’t help but stare. In the brighter lighting of the shop’s interior, Ezra could see Crowley’s outfit in full, and it was making Ezra wonder whose idea it had been to attach a stigma to men in skirts. Clearly, whoever had made that decision had never seen anyone quite so beautiful as Crowley. 

_ It should be a crime,  _ Ezra thought with a fervor that bordered on anger,  _ for anyone to ever tell Crowley that he looks anything less than perfect.  _

Crowley was dressed mostly in black, but there were details in the fabric that Ezra hadn’t been able to see outside. He was wearing a plain black shirt underneath a cropped leather jacket adorned with silver buckles and buttons and far too many pockets. His skirt was a long, flowing thing that touched the middle of his calves, and it had a gentle metallic sheen that was just subtle enough to be missed on a passing glance but bold enough to demand notice if someone looked at it properly. He looked to be wearing some sort of long stockings or tights underneath his skirt, and the whole ensemble was topped off with a pair of Doc Martens the color of red wine. There were other splashes of color, too — a red stone on one of the many rings on his long fingers, a pink triangle pinned to the front of his jacket, a soft mauve color on his lips. 

Those lips were quickly curving downward into a frown, and when Ezra realized this, he dropped his gaze to the table. It was probably rude to stare at someone, even if you were on a date with him. He’d have to ask Anathema later how much date-ogling was considered socially acceptable. 

“Are you okay?” Crowley’s voice was soft, melodic as always. 

“Yes,” Ezra said to the table, feeling his fire-red blush renew itself in his cheeks. “Of course.” 

Crowley shifted forward, and five of his ring-covered fingers appeared in Ezra’s line of sight. He was reaching across the table, palm upward. Like he knew that Ezra was aching to touch him, like he (good Lord) wanted Ezra to. 

Shyly, Ezra put his hand over Crowley’s. He didn’t lace their fingers together or move his hand to wrap around Crowley’s palm. He just let it rest there, and he let himself take in the sight of their hands together once more. 

It was a thing he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing, but he wanted an infinite number of opportunities to try. 

The girl who brought their noodles to the table asked Crowley where he’d gotten his lipstick. Crowley smiled when he answered, and Ezra’s heart jumped forward in his chest. If it had gone any farther, it might have hit his ribs. It felt like it was beating in a Crowley-ward direction, physically trying to connect itself to him, and Ezra couldn’t blame it. 

Crowley finished his entire plate of noodles in less than ten minutes. It took Ezra nearly four times that long to work his way through his soup, which was due to the fact that he was trying to hold a conversation as well as give the bone broth in front of him the attention it deserved. 

They left the noodle bar shortly after ten. Ezra stalled on the pavement, unsure whether Crowley would be leaving right away. Crowley took the opportunity to pull a compact mirror out of his pocket and reapply his lipstick. 

He capped the tube, clicked the mirror shut, and asked “Can I walk you home?” as he shoved both items back into his skirt’s right-hand pocket. 

Ezra smiled at him and held out a hand. Crowley took it. 

“Yes, you may.” 

For the first minute or two, the walk was devoid of conversation. Ezra was once again focused on the feeling of Crowley’s hand in his, cataloguing the coolness of the metal of Crowley’s rings in contrast to the warm roughness of the skin on his fingers. He started thinking that there were probably a hundred different things he could memorize about Crowley’s hands, a thousand different ways he could hold them. 

And then Crowley said, “You can tell me what you’re thinking, y’know,” and Ezra felt like there was suddenly more space beneath his rib cage. It was like his heart had gone, or his lungs had deflated. It was as though something had moved.

Ezra looked up at him and asked, “Can I?” 

“Sorry?” The line of Crowley's mouth was a high arch, and his eyebrows drew together. 

“Can I tell you what I’m thinking? Can I really?” 

“Yeah, ‘course. Why wouldn’t you be able to—” 

“I think differently than other people,” Ezra said. “And sometimes it doesn’t make any sense to people who aren’t… well, people who aren’t me.” 

“Okay,” said Crowley. 

“So I might say something that you don’t understand, or I might talk about things that don’t interest you at all,” Ezra clarified. “And I’m not particularly good about identifying my emotions and putting them into words. It can be difficult for me to understand what I’m feeling, which means that I might think I’m angry when I’m really only frustrated, or I might think I’m sad when I’m actually lonely. And sometimes I genuinely can’t tell what I’m feeling, which can… well, I can lose control, sometimes.” 

Ezra was expecting Crowley to look confused. He was waiting for Crowley to pull his hand away, and he braced himself for the stream of questions that he’d gotten from his parents when he’d tried explaining this to them.  _ Why does that happen? Do you need to talk to someone? Can’t you try talking about things that other people are interested in? What do you mean, you have a hard time with emotions?  _

Crowley didn’t look confused. He didn’t pull his hand away. He didn’t ask rude questions. 

Instead, he said, “Okay.” A repeated acceptance, an unflinching sort of trust. 

Ezra had no idea what to do with that, so he forged ahead. “I know from experience that it bothers some people — I’m not certain why, but I know that it does — so I thought that you should know what my talking to you about my thoughts actually entails.” 

“Okay,” Crowley said again. “Thanks.” 

“I speak a bit differently, too.” Ezra wasn’t sure why he was still talking. They had reached the door to his building, which meant that he should probably cut Crowley loose. And besides that, Crowley was being wonderfully patient. He was being kind, and he was actually  _ listening, _ and yet Ezra kept talking. It was as though some part of his subconscious had decided that Crowley had to have a breaking point and was doing its best to find it. It was self-preservation, Ezra supposed. Get hurt now to avoid getting hurt later. 

But Crowley smiled and said, “Yeah. Very proper, you are.” 

“It isn’t intentional.”

“I figured.” 

The list of people Ezra knew who were both aware that his brain operated on a different frequency than theirs and treated him like a fully functioning human anyway was very short. Crowley was, somehow, acting like he wanted to add his name to that list. 

Still, Ezra felt that he had to keep pushing back. He hadn’t meant for this to be a test, hadn’t wanted this date to turn into an interrogation. But then Crowley had said that Ezra could talk to him, and all of Ezra’s plans for the evening had fallen into the background in light of the hope that Crowley would actually mean it. 

This conversation had become Ezra’s version of a skirt. He  _ wanted  _ to tell Crowley these things, and more than anything, he wanted Crowley to still want him after he was done. 

So Ezra said, “And I haven’t figured out how to sit still. You haven’t mentioned it, but you must have noticed. It’s more obvious when I’m upset or excited.” 

“Ezra,” Crowley said gently. “Hey. You don’t have to defend yourself to me, okay?” 

“What?” 

“All of the things you’ve said? None of those things are problems.” 

Ezra stared at their linked hands and forced himself to breathe.  _ None of those things are problems.  _

“Oh,” Ezra said. 

“I’m not going to ask you who made you think that they were, because I think that’s a conversation better saved for a time when we’re not standing on the sidewalk in front of the door to your flat.” There was a ripple of a smile in Crowley’s tone, but something sharp was there, too. “But I just want you to know that I don’t care if you think or talk or move different than me or anyone else. I don’t care.” 

“Ah.” 

“I fancy you, Ezra Adams,” Crowley said. He squeezed Ezra’s hand, pressed his fingertips to the place behind Ezra’s knuckles. “And all of this stuff, the things that make you different — I fancy them, too, because they’re bits of you. Wouldn’t get rid of ‘em if I could.”

“You are marvelous,” Ezra breathed. He reached up almost without meaning to, letting his fingers brace themselves against the side of Crowley’s jaw. 

“Nah,” Crowley said quickly. “Haven’t done anything, really. Just can’t have you going around thinking there’s anything about you that you should be ashamed of. That’d be a tragedy, I think.” 

Ezra shook his head. Took a step closer, bringing himself almost into contact with Crowley. 

“Marvelous,” Ezra said again.

Crowley shuddered, a barely perceptible movement that Ezra felt rather than saw. 

“Go out with me again,” Crowley said. “Please.” 

“When?” 

Crowley huffed out a laugh, which made Ezra realize how close together their faces were. Crowley must have bent down, bridged the gap in their heights. Like he was thinking of kissing Ezra. Like he wanted to. 

“Tomorrow,” Crowley muttered. “Day after that. Day after  _ that. _ Any of those, all of those. Whenever you want.” 

“What will we do?” Ezra wasn’t sure that his brain was even talking to his body anymore. It felt like his neurons had decided to take the night off and left him to deal with the sound of Crowley’s voice and the look on Crowley’s face and the feeling of Crowley’s hands. He was flying blind, a pilot in a plane with all nav and comm systems down, and that was terrifyingly okay. 

“Could take you somewhere outside of town.” 

“A picnic?” 

“If you like.” Crowley was smiling. “I was thinking we could go look at some stars, sometime. My flatmate Newt’s got a telescope.” 

Ezra pushed himself onto his toes, and suddenly he was so close to Crowley that their noses were nearly touching. 

“How about a picnic and then the stars?” 

“Same night?” 

It was Ezra’s turn to laugh. “That sounds lovely.” 

“Good, then,” Crowley said. Ezra’s toes were getting tired, so he lowered himself back onto the ground. Crowley followed, bending down a few inches further to keep the distance between them the same. “Settled.” 

“Settled.” 

“I want to kiss you,” Crowley whispered, his words tangling together in their rush to leave his mouth. “Can I kiss you?” 

Ezra nodded, said “Please.” 

It was nothing more than the soft press of Crowley’s mouth to his. It shouldn’t have shaken Ezra’s stability, shouldn’t have weakened his knees. It certainly shouldn’t have caused his heart to leap forward in his chest again. But it did all of those things, and it did them in the handful of seconds that the kiss lasted. 

For a split second, Ezra wondered if all first kisses were like this. He decided they couldn’t be, because if time stopped like this for every first kiss, it would have ceased to exist altogether by now. 

Crowley pulled away with dimples in his cheeks and a smile crawling its way across his lips. He brushed a hand across Ezra’s jaw, ran a thumb over the shell of Ezra’s ear. And then he leaned in again, caught Ezra’s mouth with his. It was certain, and it was gentle, and it was beautiful. It felt the same as believing that there would be a sunrise, had the same kind of surety that Ezra had always known to come with feeling safe. 

“Goodnight,” Crowley said. He walked toward the street, his skirt moving like water around his legs, and Ezra smiled at his retreating back. 

The smile faltered after a moment as a thought crossed Ezra’s mind. A worry, a bit of darkness. 

“Mind how you go,” Ezra called after Crowley. 

Crowley’s laugh rang out. “Always.” 

“Please, Crowley,” Ezra said forcefully. “No run-ins with men who might not… might not understand how beautiful you are.” 

Crowley stopped walking, turned, and waved his mobile toward Ezra. “Calling an Uber. Too late for the trains anyway.” 

“Alright.” 

“I can text you when I get home, if you’d like.” 

Ezra brightened. “I would. Thank you.” 

“Goodnight, Ezra.” 

“Goodnight, Crowley.” 

Ezra stood on his front doorstep and waited for Crowley’s ride to pull up to the kerb. He watched Crowley get into the front seat, and he saw the driver smile. Only then did he unlock the door to his building and go inside. 

Anathema was sitting at their kitchen table with a textbook and a cup of tea when Ezra walked into the flat. She looked like she’d been about to ask him a question, but the words were gone before they’d even passed her lips. They were replaced by a smirk and new words that were definitely not a question. 

“You’ve got lipstick on your mouth.” 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through a happy coincidence, Ezra finds out about Crowley's day job. There is a date that involves stargazing, a bit of protective-sister Anathema, and quite a lot of softness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! 
> 
> In the interest of honesty, this is the last chapter that I've written so far. Life has really been getting to me lately, and I've had a few days of very low lows. Hopefully I'll be able to pull it together enough to write a chapter for next week - I already have the plot planned out, but I've got to put it into words! If you don't hear from me next Monday, check my [Tumblr](https://hope-inthedark.tumblr.com/) for an update on my writing schedule! 
> 
> Thank you all so very much for the outpouring of love for this fic. I know I haven't gotten around to comment replies yet, but that doesn't mean that I don't see (and love, and treasure, and often commit to memory) all of the lovely things you all have been saying. You truly keep me going, and for that I couldn't be more grateful. 
> 
> The art at the end of this chapter was created by the brilliant and remarkably talented [zepuffer!](https://zepuffer.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Warnings: language

The air in the shop was cool and slightly damp, chilling Ezra’s bare skin. The scent of flowers was strong but not overpowering, and Ezra was momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer variety of colors and shapes. 

He’d never bought flowers before. He didn’t even know which sort of flower had which connotations, which is why he’d initially balked at Anathema’s suggestion that he bring flowers on his picnic date with Crowley. But Anathema had told him that the employees in shops like these would be able to help him pick out something nice, so he’d done a bit of internet research to find the best shop within walking distance of campus. 

This shop was called Eden, which Ezra thought was a bit presumptuous. Set rather high expectations, a name like that. Nevertheless, he found himself weaving between tables toward the back counter, where a metal bell sat with a handwritten sign asking him to ‘Please ring for service.’ Ezra did as the sign instructed, and the bell chimed brightly. 

And then a wonderfully familiar voice called, “Be up in a tick!” and Ezra lost his breath. 

A few moments later, the door behind the counter swung open, and Crowley walked through it. He was already talking, a customer-service smile on his lips. 

“Sorry about that, how can— _Ezra?_ ” Crowley’s fake smile dropped away, replaced by an open-mouthed gape that lasted for a short span of seconds before resolving itself into a different kind of smile. An easier one, a stronger one. It was a genuine thing of joy, and it was on Crowley’s face because of Ezra. 

“Hello,” Ezra said with a furious blush. “I wasn’t aware that you worked here.” 

“Ah.” Crowley’s ears were turning pink. He wiped his hands on his dark grey apron. “It’s not really… I dunno, it kinda ruins the image, doesn’t it?” 

“Image?” 

Crowley strummed an imaginary guitar and made a sweeping gesture with one arm that seemed to indicate his entire body. “Y’know. Musician, edgy sort of bloke. That image.” 

“I’m not sure that working at a flower shop is quite as reputation-damaging as you seem to think,” Ezra said honestly, and one of Crowley’s dark eyebrows stretched into an arch. “Although, I suppose I might not be the best judge of these things. I’ve never been one to come off as ‘cool,’ myself.” 

A soft chuckle slipped past Crowley’s lips. “Your judgement matters to me.” 

“Oh,” said Ezra, trying very hard to remember that this was a public place and that he should not lean across the counter and grab Crowley’s face and kiss him until neither of them could breathe. “That’s— good, yes. Good.” 

Crowley took a couple hip-swinging steps forward and braced himself against the shop counter. His biceps flexed and the muscles in his forearms tightened, and the snake tattoo on his left arm momentarily seemed to move. He tilted his torso over the counter, bringing himself as close to Ezra as he could get, his ears still flushed red and his beautiful lips still smiling. 

“What can I help you with, then?” 

Ah. Right. Florist’s shop, surrounded by flowers. Looking at the man he’d been intending to buy flowers for. Ezra had not been prepared for this scenario. 

So he said, “Nothing,” and Crowley barked out a short laugh. 

“Nothing?” 

Ezra stared at his shoes, fingers drumming against the sides of his thighs. “Mm.” 

“You just happened to wander in here?” Crowley’s voice was curling through the air, and Ezra had the faint idea that he might be joking. “Saw a shop named ‘Eden,’ looked in the window and saw the flowers, decided to pop in and see if it was really a florist’s?” 

“Mm,” Ezra said again, but he stopped looking at his trainers for long enough to give Crowley a small smile. 

“So, no ulterior motives, then,” Crowley said, and from the way his smile twisted into a smirk, Ezra was more certain that he was teasing. “Just a coincidence, you coming in here today.” 

“Well,” said Ezra, and Crowley grinned. “Not… I suppose not _entirely_ a coincidence.” 

Crowley leaned further across the counter, levering his long body down onto his forearms. 

“What’s the ‘not entirely,’ then?” 

“You’re bringing the food tonight,” Ezra said slowly, “and you’re driving us out of the city.” 

“Yes,” Crowley said. 

“I thought — I should say that _Anathema_ thought, really, she helped me come up with the idea — that I should bring flowers.” 

“For me?” The words sounded the way Crowley’s smile looked. Bright and beautiful and _happy,_ just as Crowley should always be. 

“Yes,” Ezra said as a red flush began to spread across his cheeks. “But I wasn’t sure what to get. I haven’t purchased flowers for anyone before, so I was hoping to get some guidance.” 

“But I work here, so you don’t want to ask me what to get,” Crowley said knowingly, his grin becoming wider by the moment. 

“Yes,” Ezra said again. 

Crowley shook his head slightly, and a few of his curls fell into his face. There were dimples in his cheeks. Ezra wanted to kiss them. 

“I’ll give you the address of another shop, so long’s you don’t tell my boss.”

“Oh, would you?” Ezra couldn’t stop himself from moving toward Crowley, couldn’t keep his hands from reaching for Crowley’s. Something soft and hot had settled in Ezra’s chest at Crowley’s offer, and when Ezra’s hands settled on Crowley’s, it wound itself around Ezra’s heart. “That would be lovely.” 

“‘Course. I could always pick something out for myself, y’know, but I feel like you had the intention of doing that bit.” 

“With someone’s help, yes, I did.” 

“Good,” Crowley said. “Let me get that address for you.” 

“Thank you.” 

Crowley didn’t move for a moment. He let Ezra hold his hands, and Ezra fought to keep his heart beating steadily. It wanted to jump against his ribs, do backflips, skip beats. And when Crowley did pull his hands away and start shuffling through a drawer in search of a pen and paper, Ezra let his own hands fall against the counter. The varnished wood was warm from Crowley’s skin, and for some reason, the feel of it sent a pleasant shiver down Ezra’s spine. 

A small slip of paper slid under the fingers of Ezra’s right hand, and Crowley’s finger brushed over Ezra’s once more. 

“I’ve got to finish this custom order before I’m off for the day,” Crowley said. “But I’ll see you at half four, yeah?”

“Half four,” Ezra repeated in confirmation. “Yes. I’ll be ready.” 

Crowley raised a finger, and crooked it toward himself, so Ezra leaned in. He thought Crowley might have something to show him or some advice on which flowers to buy. What he wasn’t expecting was for Crowley to duck his head down and ask, “Kiss okay?” 

Ezra made a small squeaking noise and nodded, praying that no one would walk into the shop and force Crowley to change his mind. 

It was a small thing, nothing more than a short press of lips, but it made Ezra’s brain go fuzzy anyway. 

“Th-thank you,” Ezra said dazedly, and the humid air filled with the sound of Crowley’s laughter. 

“Pleasure’s mine.” 

*********

Anathema was scrutinizing Ezra’s bowtie options from across the kitchen table. A cup of tea was cooling in front of her, resting unsteadily on the open pages of her monthly edition of _Psychic News._

“What color are the flowers, again?” 

“Lavender,” Ezra said shortly. “You think I should match my tie to the roses?” 

Anathema wrinkled her nose. “Dunno. Could do, I guess. Mostly you just don’t want the colors to clash.” 

“I don’t understand fashion in the slightest,” Ezra sighed. “How do you people manage this?” 

“Practice.” 

“Really?” 

Anathema made a soft snorting sound. “Partly. Other bit’s accepting guidance from the fashion-forward people in your life, which you’re rubbish at.” 

“Really, Anathema, it’s not that I’m opposed to updating my wardrobe, it’s just—” 

“You need to be comfortable,” Anathema said with a half-smile. “I know.” 

Ezra rolled his eyes and raised three bowties in the air (he’d narrowed it down to those three based on the navy-and-beige triangle pattern of his jumper, which was one of four iterations of the same brand and style of jumper in his closet) and shook them in Anathema’s direction. “Which one?” 

“Mm,” Anathema said, cocking her head to the side. “Definitely lose the green. Show me the other two on.” 

Sighing, Ezra flipped his collar up and slid the first one around his neck. It was a dark maroon color, which James had said would look nice with his eyes. 

“Maybe,” Anathema said when he’d finished tying it. “Other one?” 

“This is ridiculous,” Ezra protested, but he set to loosening the tie and replacing it with the other (dark grey linen, lightweight and soft). “You could have told me which one is best without my having to put on a— a fashion show.” 

Anathema grinned at him and tucked her hands behind her head, tilting her chair onto its back two legs. “Yeah, but this is more fun.” 

“You are insufferable.” 

“Yeah,” Anathema said with a wink. “Also: the grey’s the better match of the two, and it won’t clash with the flowers.” 

“This,” Ezra said with another sigh as he gathered up the two discarded ties, “is absurd.” 

Anathema peeled herself out of her chair and walked around to the other side of the table, twisting Ezra’s tie to straighten it. She ran a hand through his curls, gave him another wink, and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. It was a sisterly gesture, a nonverbal reminder that she loved him, and Ezra reached for her hand in thanks. 

“Yeah, well.” Anathema gave Ezra’s hand a squeeze and then rubbed at his cheek, presumably getting rid of a smudge from her lipstick. “You look really handsome, so shut up.” 

“Thank you, my dear.” 

A buzzing sound rang through the flat, and Anathema rushed to press the button on the intercom. “Yeah?” 

_“It’s Crowley. I’m here for Ezra Adams, is he in?”_

“Depends,” Anathema said drily, ignoring the glare and cease-and-desist gesture that Ezra threw in her direction. “What are your intentions with him?” 

Crowley’s laugh crackled over the speaker. _“Dinner and stargazing, mostly.”_

“That sounds alright.” 

Ezra shook his head and headed for the refrigerator with a sigh. He was definitely going to need those flowers now — they would have to serve as an apology for having to deal with his annoying (wonderful, protective, found-sister) flatmate in addition to a gesture of affection. 

_“I take it you’re Anathema,”_ Crowley said, and Ezra felt his chest constrict with happiness. Crowley had listened to him when he’d spoken about her, had remembered her name. 

“I am.” Anathema looked over her shoulder to smirk at Ezra, who flapped his hand in the direction of the intercom. She turned back to it and said, “Ezra’ll be down in a minute.” 

_“Hi, Ezra,”_ Crowley said loudly, and Ezra couldn’t smother a small smile. _“And hey, Anathema. You can come down, too, if you want to make sure he’s not driving off with an axe murderer.”_

“I was planning on it,” Anathema said, but she shot Ezra a thumbs up. “We’re on our way.” 

Crowley said, _“Okay,”_ and then the line went dead. 

“You’re a menace,” Ezra said as he slipped his mobile into his pocket. “He’s going to think I’m completely mad, living with you.” 

“You _are_ completely mad,” Anathema teased. “You read that entire chapter about the Paris sewer system in _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and actually enjoyed it, for fuck’s sake. No sanity in that.” 

“A menace, I say,” Ezra repeated, but there was no venom in it. He reached for her hand, and she took it. 

Crowley was waiting outside the door. He was standing with his shoulder pressed into the wall, his body forming the long side of a right-angled triangle. At the sight of Ezra and Anathema, he pushed off of the wall with a spinal motion that looked almost serpentine.

“Hi,” Crowley said. He stuck out a hand, and Anathema dropped Ezra’s in order to take it and give it a firm shake. “Crowley.” 

“Anathema Device.” 

Crowley stepped back and pulled open his jacket — it looked to be made of the same red-wine-colored leather as the boots he’d worn to the noodle bar the night before — before spinning in a tight circle. 

“No axes,” Crowley said, and Ezra laughed at him. “No murders planned for the evening, I promise.” 

Apparently satisfied, Anathema nodded at Ezra. “Send me a text if you’re planning to be back past two-ish, yeah?” 

“I will.” Ezra squeezed her bicep for emphasis and gave her a soft smile. “Thank you.” 

Crowley gestured to the kerb, where a blue Reliant Robin sat happily on its three wheels. It looked to be pretty badly in need of a wash, and the words ‘Dick Turpin’ were painted lovingly across the boot. 

Ezra supposed it could be worse (although he wasn’t entirely sure _how,_ given what he’d heard about the safety ratings of this particular make and model), so he allowed Crowley to lead him to the car. Crowley jogged the last few steps and pulled the passenger side door open, and Ezra found himself debating the merits of snogging Crowley in the middle of a busy street. 

“Hey,” Anathema called from behind them. Crowley froze with his hand on the car door, and Ezra stopped climbing into the seat for just long enough to raise an eyebrow at her. “Why’s your car called Dick Turpin?” 

For some reason, that question caused Crowley’s suave facade to crack into a million pieces. He started to laugh, a deep thing that came from his belly, bracing his hand on his side as if he expected to get a stitch from it. 

“This isn’t my car,” Crowley said after a moment, gasping for breath and trying to stifle further peals of laughter. “‘S my flatmate’s, and since he’s only been waiting his _entire life_ for someone to ask him that, I’m not gonna steal his thunder.” 

Anathema muttered something under her breath, but she waved goodbye to Ezra and ducked back inside the apartment building without pressing the issue further. 

The drive to the South Downs was actually a rather long one, but it didn’t feel like it took much more time than a run to the shops. This was partly because Crowley drove like a bat out of hell, but Ezra tried to convince himself that he didn’t mind. If they made it to their destination in one piece, that would be enough. But the pace of the ride also had something to do with the fact that Crowley had somehow rigged an auxiliary cord to connect the car’s outdated stereo system to his mobile, and he insisted on commenting on some part of each song that came up on his playlist. Ezra listened to him talk about chord progressions and accidentals and clever lyrics in between conversations about his own interests, and he was surprised to find that he actually found the subject quite interesting. 

After nearly an hour and a half of driving, Crowley pulled off of the road into a gravel lot. He threw the car into park and flung open his door, racing around to the passenger side to open Ezra’s door with a grin and a low bow. 

“After you, sir,” Crowley teased, gesturing behind himself toward an expanse of rolling hills. 

“Oh,” Ezra breathed. “Oh, it’s _beautiful._ ” 

“We can pick a spot,” Crowley said softly, and one of his hands settled on the small of Ezra’s back. “I’ve got a quilt, and Newt had a proper picnic basket — he had no explanation for having it, by the way, but I decided not to ask too many questions. His mum’s a bit of a character, if y’know what I mean — so we can just…” Crowley trailed off and stretched the fingers of his other hand out toward the hills. “Find a place.” 

Ezra couldn’t think of any words to say in response, so he turned around and looped his hands around Crowley’s neck. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

The tips of Crowley’s ears flushed red in an instant, and Ezra felt him bounce forward onto his toes before falling flat again. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Whenever you like.” 

Ezra had never initiated a kiss, but he figured that it couldn’t be too hard. He pulled gently on the back of Crowley’s neck, and Crowley allowed himself to be moved. At the same time, Ezra pushed himself upwards, tilting his head just enough to avoid bumping Crowley’s nose with his own. 

It was clumsy and far less than perfect, but Ezra couldn’t find it within himself to care. The world could have exploded, turned to a puddle of goo, and Ezra would have gone on kissing Crowley without noticing anything at all. 

“I’ll get better at that,” Ezra said when he pulled away, breathless. 

Crowley chuckled, blowing warm breath across Ezra’s lips in soft puffs. “You don’t need to. But I hope you’ll get lots of chances to do that again, so if you need to look at it like practice…” 

“I want lots of chances,” Ezra said quickly. “All of the chances, really. I could kiss you for— for forever, I think, without getting tired of it.” 

Crowley cocked his head, seemingly searching Ezra’s face for any trace of humor. When he didn’t find any, he said, “I’m more than okay with that,” and Ezra’s heart turned to slurry in his chest. 

They found a spot on the top of one of the smaller hills, nestled in a low point beneath two of the larger ones. Crowley busied himself with spreading out the quilt and setting the picnic basket in one corner. The bag containing Newt’s telescope was placed to the side. 

When Crowley was satisfied with their setup, he sprawled across the quilt in a jumble of limbs and patted the spot next to him. Ezra had unlaced his trainers, and he kicked them off before padding onto the blanket with sock-clad feet. He settled himself against Crowley’s side, and then he placed his bouquet of roses in Crowley’s lap. 

“I know you saw them in the car,” Ezra explained as Crowley picked up the plastic-wrapped flowers, “but I wanted to wait until we got here to give them to you.” 

“Mm,” Crowley said. He was tracing the petals of a single rose with the tip of his forefinger, and a tiny smile was playing on his lips. 

“It’s the sentiment of the thing.” 

“Thank you,” Crowley said, his gaze still trained on the flowers. “Lavender roses. Do you know what—” 

“Yes,” Ezra said hurriedly. “I know what they mean.” 

The shop attendant at the florist’s shop had asked Ezra who or what the flowers were for, and in the process of an explanation, Ezra had told her the story of how he and Crowley had met. When he’d finished, she had told him that he might consider lavender roses, which symbolized both a magical feeling and love at first sight. 

Now, though, Ezra was worried that he’d overstepped. He wasn’t ready to say the words out loud, and he didn’t think that Crowley was, either, so he qualified the meaning of the flowers in Crowley’s hands. 

“I’ve been fascinated by you since the first day that I saw you,” Ezra said slowly, and Crowley finally looked over at him. “Your voice was — _is_ — the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, I think. And you… you look like you just walked out of a magazine, really. I don’t know if I should tell you that I’ve fancied you from the moment I laid eyes on you, but I suppose that I’m telling you anyway.” 

“Funny,” Crowley said. “I feel the same about you. I used to wonder what your voice would sound like, actually, but I knew that I liked the look of you from the start.” 

A blush had begun to warm Ezra’s cheeks from the moment Crowley had started to speak, and it was crawling down his neck and over his chest a furiously quick pace.

“Why?” It was a quiet question, and Ezra certainly hadn’t meant to ask it. He wanted to grab the word out of the air and cram it back down his throat, swallow it before Crowley heard. 

But Crowley had heard, and creases stretched across his forehead. “What do you mean?” 

Ezra felt rather like he was standing in a hole with a shovel in his hand, digging himself deeper with every word, but he answered anyway. 

“You must turn heads every day,” Ezra said. “You have lovely hair and a face that could be on those adverts about cologne or eyeglasses or hair products. And you’re—” Ezra moved his hand up and down, indicating Crowley’s entire body “—quite fit, you know. In a way that would be very difficult for anyone to ignore.” 

Crowley’s shoulders jumped in a shrug. “Dunno. Happens sometimes, yeah, people asking for my number or making offers that I’d never accept in a million years, but it’s not really something I pay much attention to.” 

“That doesn’t happen to me,” Ezra said. “And I know why. I dress like a man at least two decades older than I am, and I don’t have the sort of body that most people would look twice at, and I’m quiet, and—” 

“Then people are out of their minds, blind, or both,” Crowley said decisively. “I like the way you dress. I don’t actually know _why_ I like it, other than that it makes you look kind and gentle and soft, which you _are._ And your body is… Ezra, your body’s bloody beautiful, okay? I don’t give a damn about most people’s preferences. And you’re not quiet, not when someone takes the time to know you.” Crowley broke off, his breaths coming faster. “And everyone should take the time to know you. The idea that anyone’s ever passed on the chance to know you is fucking insane. They should get checked to make sure they’ve still got cognitive function, really.” 

Ezra’s body was blazing. Every inch of his skin was blood-flushed and hot. It was actually quite uncomfortable, but Ezra didn’t pay the discomfort any heed. Crowley liked him, liked the way he looked (liked his body, with all of its curves and roundness and soft edges), liked the way he _was._

“Crowley,” Ezra said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. 

“Guess I’m gonna have to keep giving you compliments if it makes you get like this.” Crowley wiggled his eyebrows. “You’re cute when you know I like you.” 

Ezra mumbled a string of incoherent syllables, tucking his chin into his chest. And then Crowley slung a long arm around Ezra’s shoulders and pulled him closer, pressing Ezra’s body against his own. 

They watched the sun go down over a dinner of cold sandwiches and cheese and onion crisps. Crowley had packed a thermos of tea (peppermint, with a splash of milk and a few teaspoons of sugar), and he cracked the seal as sunset turned to dusk. He spread a thick black blanket over both of their legs, claiming that the temperature would drop rapidly once it got dark. 

Eventually, the stars started to come into view, and Crowley flopped down onto his back. Ezra followed, snuggling into Crowley’s side once more and pulling the blanket up to his chest. . 

“What do you know about the stars, angel?” 

_Angel._ Ezra turned his head to look at Crowley, trying to make out the lines of his face in the deep blue darkness. But Crowley wasn’t looking at him. Crowley was staring at the sky, and Ezra was almost certain that he was smiling. 

So Ezra didn’t ask about the pet name. He liked it, really, and he was overcome by the realization that he wouldn’t mind at all if Crowley kept using it. 

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Ezra answered, and he felt the rumble of Crowley’s laugh make its way through both of their bodies. 

“Bookish bloke like you, would’ve thought you’d have run across something star-related.” 

“It’s never really been my area,” Ezra admitted, and Crowley made a happy huffing sound. 

“Okay, then.” Crowley lifted his hand toward the sky, cutting a dark shape through the constellations. “See that bright star, there? That’s called Polaris. It’s the north star, and it basically stays still while the other stars move around it throughout the year. It’s part of a constellation called Ursa Minor, which means—” 

“Lesser bear,” Ezra said, and Crowley giggled. 

“Yeah. ‘Course you know that. Anyway, so the little bear’s there — it looks kinda like a square soup ladle, you see it?” 

“Yes,” Ezra said softly. 

“Okay, good. So if you look down, right down from it, you’ll see a bigger version of the same shape. ‘S called Ursa Major—” 

“Greater bear.” 

“Yeah, exactly. People also call it the Plough, but I like the story of the bears better.” 

“Tell me,” Ezra said. 

Crowley turned his head to the side. Ezra could feel him breathing, and the hand that had been resting on Ezra’s arm for the better part of two hours gave a gentle squeeze. 

“Really?” 

“Really.” Ezra couldn’t stop himself from smiling, so he rolled over and pressed a small kiss to Crowley’s lips. “Tell me the stories of the stars, Crowley.” 

“You’re _perfect,_ ” Crowley said, and Ezra’s thoughts vanished in puffs of smoke. “Right, okay. Sky bears. So, the Romans told this story about Jupiter and this woman, Callisto — you know Greek and Roman myths, right, how Jupiter can’t _not_ sleep with every woman he thinks is hot? This is one of those…” 

As Crowley continued to tell Ezra stories of jilted lovers and heroes and twins, Ezra’s mind drifted back to what Crowley had said at Eden about his ‘image.’ He wore dark clothes most of the time, distressed denim and thick leather and thin black shirts. Crowley dressed like the night sky, really — all dark save for small pieces studded with silver or gold, bits of metal like stars. He had a snake tattoo on his left arm and a few other patches of ink across other parts of his skin. Ezra had seen them in flashes, in little moments, but not for long enough to make out their designs. There was one below Crowley’s right collarbone, another stretched across the tops of his shoulders. Crowley wore earrings, too, most days, and when he wasn’t playing the guitar, his fingers were decked out in rings. He covered himself in bits of metal, like fractured armor. Ezra had thought, at first, that Crowley’s ‘image’ was something hard, an approximation of iron fences and stories-high walls. There was a fascinatingly dangerous beauty in the way that Crowley chose to present himself, and things like working at a florist’s shop or having an obsession with the mythology of the stars softened that danger. 

But the Crowley that Ezra knew was not dangerous, was not walled-off or surrounded by wrought-iron fences. Crowley was sunlight and laughter and warm, calloused skin. He was soft kisses and flowing skirts and unflinching acceptance. He was smiles and easy conversation and comfort, and Ezra was beginning to think that he’d been wrong for ever thinking that Crowley was anything less than safe. 

Crowley could dress in all black and put on his jewelry and cover his skin in ink, and all of that would do nothing but make him more himself. He would still have a voice that was smooth in all of the places except for the ones where it was wonderfully rough, still have a smile that could tear down people’s defences from a hundred yards away. And all of those things were beautiful, and Ezra wanted to brush his fingers over every part of Crowley just for the sake of feeling that beauty. Ezra _liked_ Crowley’s clothes and his tattoos and his piercings, adored them just as he adored Crowley’s dimples and smile and laugh and kisses. Crowley could be whoever he wanted to be, could be any version of himself, and Ezra would adore him for it. 

When Ezra shifted to rest his head on Crowley’s thin chest, Crowley was still talking, going on about an archer named Orion. “...so yeah, Apollo was jealous of Artemis’ affection for Orion, so he challenged her to an archery contest at dawn one morning. He said that she couldn’t hit a black speck out in the middle of the ocean, and she took the bait. She shot at the thing, hit it, and was celebrating her victory when Apollo told her that she’d shot Orion.” 

“That’s terribly sad,” Ezra said. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, tracing his fingers in slow circles along the length of Ezra’s arm. “But Artemis loved him, so she put him in the sky.” 

“I do like that, I think.” 

“Like what?” 

Ezra hummed. “The idea that you can put your loved ones in the sky. That you can make them last forever.” 

“Me, too.” 

“Even the stories themselves are like that,” Ezra said. “The Ancient Greeks and Romans have been dead for thousands of years, but here you are, telling me their stories.” 

“They last forever,” Crowley murmured. “Yeah.” 

“Tell me another story.” 

Crowley laughed. “You don’t want to get out the telescope?” 

“I like stories,” Ezra said against Crowley’s chest. “I like _you,_ telling me stories.” 

“We’ll have to come back, then,” Crowley said, and Ezra could hear the smile in his voice. “It’ll get too cold out for this in coming months, but we can come back. In the spring, when it’s warming up again. There’ll be other stars then, and we can look at ‘em properly.” 

Spring was months away. A lot could happen between now and spring. A lot could change. But Crowley was talking about spending another night out in this field, looking up at the stars and telling Ezra about them, and he spoke about it with an unwavering confidence that made Ezra dare to hope that it would happen. 

“I would love that,” Ezra said, and Crowley’s answering hum vibrated underneath his ear. “Now then. Which constellation is next?” 

“Draco. They’re a dragon — lots of myths about them, actually. I just like them because they’re kinda like a big snake.”

“Where are they?” 

Crowley raised his hand again, pointing out the relevant stars. Ezra followed the line that Crowley’s finger traced through the sky, and he adored him.

  
Artwork by [zepuffer](https://zepuffer.tumblr.com/)


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every so often, for no reason at all, the world will become entirely too much for Ezra to handle. This time, it happens in front of Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers! 
> 
> My apologies for the unintentional two-week hiatus. I moved, I've been swamped with work, I've been in the process of adjusting my anxiety medication (under the guidance of my doctor, of course)... it's been a lot. Given the fact that things likely will be crazy for a while, I am adjusting my update schedule on this fic to every other Monday. Feel free to keep an eye out for other oneshots / final updates on other fics in the meantime, though!
> 
> Regarding this chapter: I keep reiterating this, but I want to make it abundantly clear that Ezra's experiences in this chapter are based on my own, and they are therefore not universally applicable. I do not claim to speak for all neurodivergent people, but I hope that this chapter might be validating or comforting for some of you and informative for others. 
> 
> Warnings here include: language, descriptions of sensory overload (auditory and tactile overstimulation in particular)
> 
> (Also, during my absence from this fic, I wrote a long-ish oneshot set in the trenches of WWI [it has a happy ending, I swear]. You can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25828876).)

Ezra had always thought that the world should come with some sort of warning label. _There Will Always Be Noise. This Place Is Never Quiet._ That would have been a useful thing for people to know, in Ezra’s opinion, and it certainly would have helped him understand the way that things worked in the world. 

Sometimes Ezra was able to filter sound. He could separate the important sounds — alarms, sirens, the voice of someone speaking to him, the tune of a song — from the hurried water-rush of constant noise that made up the rest of the world. He’d trained himself into it almost on accident when he was a boy, sitting on the floor of his living room and rocking back and forth as a vinyl record spun on his father’s vintage turntable. He learned to pick the music apart, break it into pieces, and think of it like that. Music became a sort of layer cake, each instrument falling into its place. The bass was underneath things like guitars and pianos, which were under voices. Drums were hard to pin down, sometimes falling in the middle of the pile or at the very bottom or at the top. It hadn’t been easy to learn how to think of music like that, but it helped Ezra process the rest of the world. He couldn’t always touch things and couldn’t always ask people to touch him, and so he learned to categorize sounds. It made it less necessary for him to clap his hands over his ears, which decreased the frequency of his mother’s reprimands for his doing so. 

But there were still moments when the world got too loud. It felt huge and oppressive, the weight of sound pressing down against his chest, and he hated it. 

Ezra was in Crowley’s flat, curled up next to Crowley on the sofa, when he noticed that he could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. It was the same volume as the television, a heavy chunk-thunk sound ringing in his ears. Someone on the television laughed, and it was out of rhythm with the clock, and Ezra tucked his head into the side of Crowley’s chest. He pressed his ear to Crowley’s body, trying to block out some of the noise. 

Maybe he could stop this. Maybe it didn’t have to be so bad this time. Maybe he would be okay, maybe Crowley wouldn’t have to see him like this yet. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Crowley’s fingers whispered across the fabric of the sofa, and Ezra’s ears picked up the sound of each cloth fiber lifting and pulling as Crowley touched them. Slowly, Ezra raised his hand and pressed it over the ear that wasn’t crushed against Crowley, and he took a shaking breath. 

“Ezra?” Crowley’s voice was muffled and thick, but Ezra could hear it. He could feel it, too, moving through Crowley’s bones and muscles in strings of vibrations. “Hey, are you okay?” 

Ezra squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe, tried to remember that the world was smaller than this sometimes, but it was quickly becoming too much. Too loud, too _many_ _things,_ too hard to understand. Why did the world have to have so many things? Why couldn’t the sun ever go away when Ezra needed it to? Why did people have to drive cars and talk to other people _all the time?_ Couldn’t they ever stop? Couldn’t the world ever just fucking _stop?_

With unsteady fingers, Ezra grabbed a hold of the front of Crowley’s shirt and pushed himself away, scrambling to the other corner of the sofa. He felt the air move and knew that Crowley was reaching for him, but when Crowley didn’t touch him, he knew that something had made Crowley stop. 

Slowly, Ezra opened his eyes and tried to block out the brightness, tried to get his vision to filter in toward Crowley. He was terrified of what he’d find when he managed it. Crowley would be afraid of him, probably. Maybe even angry. 

But when his gaze finally focused on the sharp lines of Crowley’s face, Ezra didn’t see anything like that. Instead, he found dark eyebrows pinched together (whether in confusion or concern, he couldn’t be sure) and a shocking and unexpected warmth in honey-brown eyes. He forced himself to look down at Crowley’s hands, finding them sitting palms-down on the cushion between Crowley’s body and his own. Outstretched but without urgency. An invitation. 

“Sorry,” Ezra forced himself to say. The word was heavy in his mind. “Sorry, sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Crowley’s tone was nearly normal. There was some sort of curvature to it that wasn’t usually there, but Ezra couldn’t make out exactly what it was with his hands over his ears. “It’s fine, Ezra. How can I— what can I do?” 

_Home,_ Ezra thought. _I want to go home. Take me home._ But the few remaining parts of his brain that were thinking rationally and weren’t drowning in the ocean of sound (and light and color and movement and odor and pressure and physical sensation) reminded him that going home required going outside, out into the Big Everything, and so Ezra ruled that out. 

“Do you have.” Ezra paused, gritting his teeth in anticipation of his next request. “Do you have a bedroom?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Is it dark?” 

“It can be.” Crowley motioned to someone standing behind Ezra’s back, and Ezra felt his cheeks grow warm. He’d forgotten about Newt. They didn’t know each other that well, and here Ezra was, having a meltdown in his sitting room. 

Crowley’s voice slipped through Ezra’s fingers again, just slightly louder than the rest of the world. _On top of the clock, the cars, the movement of fabric-on-fabric, the footsteps,_ Ezra managed to think, registering that the sound of the television had stopped. _Voices go on top, just like in music._

“Hey, hey. Angel. Can you tell me… do you want to go to my room now, or do you want to stay here? It’s okay if you can’t say or if you don’t know. It’s okay.” 

Dimly, Ezra recognized that he’d begun to rock back and forth, that he’d slammed his eyes shut again. Too much, too loud, too bright, too fast. 

“Now.” 

“Do you want to walk?” 

“Yes.” 

There was the muted sound of denim sliding against the thick cloth of the sofa, and Ezra felt the weight by his feet vanish. The cushions on the other end of the couch were shifting upward, replacing the body that had been pushing them down. 

“Can you open your eyes for me, or should I take your arm?” 

Ezra opened his eyes. 

“Okay, angel. Okay. See that door, the one over there?” 

Ezra followed Crowley’s finger and found a darkened doorway. He made himself nod, fingers tightening in the curls above his ears. _Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop._ And then he swung his legs over the side of the sofa and got to his feet, hating the feeling of his socks rubbing against the skin of his toes. He rushed toward the open door, practically flinging himself into the darkness of the room. 

There was a bed tucked into the corner, and Ezra made a beeline for it. It was probably rude to jump into someone else’s bed, and it probably sent a certain kind of message when the ‘someone’ in question was one’s boyfriend, but Ezra didn’t have the energy to care. 

Behind him, the door shut with a soft click, and most of the light was pushed out of the room. The only things Ezra could see now were twin halos of light around the window and door, and that was better. Not so bright, and with the door shut, somehow not so loud. 

“I can go, if you want.” Crowley’s voice floated over from his position by the door. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to be around you right now. Please don’t… please don’t think that. I always want to be around you, yeah? Always. I just want you to do what you need to do, okay? Just take your time, and if you need your own space… I can go.” 

“You can, ah.” Ezra fought back the voice in his head that was calling Crowley a liar, saying that no one could want to be around someone like this. “Stay. If you like.” 

He tugged a hand away from his ear in favor of tapping it against his leg. He needed something to focus on, something to ground him. But his socks were itchy, and his shirt was too close to his skin, and he needed them off. 

The foot of the bed dipped as Crowley sat down on it. Ezra could hear him trying to be quiet, breathing with his mouth closed and not moving around on the sheets. 

“Sorry,” Ezra said. “I have to, uh. My shirt, it’s—” 

“You don’t have to explain, Ezra. It’s okay. You’re okay. You don’t have to defend yourself to me, remember?” 

Ezra nodded sharply, forgetting that Crowley couldn’t see, and tried to work on removing his shirt.

This was not as easily accomplished as Ezra wanted or needed it to be. There were buttons, and they were stuck through button-holes, and Ezra’s fingers were shaking. He wanted to flap his arms and bury himself under these Crowley-smelling bedclothes, and he did not want to undo his buttons. He just wanted his shirt to be _off,_ away from his body. 

“Help me,” Ezra said without thinking. “Can you, can you help me?” 

“Of course.” It was an immediate answer. “With what?” 

“My shirt has buttons.” 

“Okay,” Crowley said gently. “Okay. But I can’t… I’ll need to see, just for a minute. Just to get the buttons.” 

Ezra nodded again, and this time he remembered to give a vocal response, too. “Yes, fine.” 

Crowley got off of the bed again. His footsteps were loud against the soft carpet of his floor, coming closer to Ezra before falling silent. There was a metallic snick, and the bedroom was flooded with soft yellow lamplight. 

“Can you come to the edge for me?” Crowley was speaking at a near-whisper, slow and clear. “Just for a few seconds.” 

Ezra untucked his knees from his chest and scooted to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side. He wanted to move his hands, so he did. He pressed his fingers to the center of his palm, tapping over and over again. Quick movements, short and firm. 

Crowley took a cautious half-step forward, settling between Ezra’s legs as he stretched a hand out toward Ezra’s collar. 

He didn’t touch, though. He stopped his reach a few inches short of Ezra’s chest, waiting. 

“Is this okay?” 

Something hot and fierce tore through Ezra’s heart, a good piece of chaos in the midst of all the bad. Crowley was being gentle, and he was being kind, and he wasn’t doing anything without asking. 

So Ezra tried to smile, a weak ghost of the real thing, and said, “Yes. Thank you.” 

Crowley’s fingers made quick work of the top buttons and moved their way down to the center of Ezra's chest. Ezra tried not to think about the fact that he should be embarrassed, that he should have been able to do this on his own, but the thought took root in his mind anyway. And when he began to blush, the skin of his chest warming with it, he knew that Crowley could see it. 

All of the buttons that Crowley could easily reach were done within a few seconds, and then Crowley paused again. 

“Do you want to untuck your own shirt, Ezra?” 

Ezra felt like crawling into a hole. He’d made Crowley uncomfortable, of course he had. It hadn’t even been two weeks since the night they’d gone stargazing, and he had _asked Crowley to undress him._ They hadn’t talked about boundaries yet, and Ezra certainly hadn’t come up with the right way to tell Crowley that his boundaries were ‘It’s not that I don’t like you or that I don’t find you attractive, but I need us to keep our hands out of each other’s trousers forever, please.’ And yet in spite of the fact that Ezra had yet to establish anything, Crowley was being respectful. He wasn’t treating Ezra like a thing he possessed, wasn’t acting like Ezra’s body was something he had a right to see or touch without permission. He was making sure that Ezra was _comfortable,_ for Christ’s sake, and the hot thing in Ezra’s heart flared up once more. 

“Ezra?” There was a note of tightness in Crowley’s voice. 

“Sorry,” Ezra muttered, and the mostly-darkened world around him got to be too big again. He tapped his fingers against the top of Crowley’s bedspread, moving them like he was playing a tuneless melody on an invisible piano. “Sorry, let me just—” 

He lifted his hands away from the bed and tugged at the open sides of his shirt, pulling it free from where it had been tucked into his trousers. 

“Thank you,” Crowley said softly. “Okay. Can you hold your hands still for me, just for a moment? Just have to get the sleeves off your arms.” 

Ezra forced himself to nod, slamming his eyes shut. To keep himself from collapsing further into panic, he fell back on a trick he’d used when he was much younger, back when his mother had ceaselessly reprimanded him for his constant motion. He counted odd numbers, starting with one. _One, three, five, seven, nine, eleven…_

With a sharp motion, Crowley tugged both of Ezra’s sleeves down, and his shirt came free. Crowley folded the shirt sloppily and laid it on the nightstand, moving back from where he’d been standing close to Ezra. 

“Anything else?” 

“Socks,” Ezra said without thinking. He wasn’t sure when he’d started to rock back and forth again, but he had. Crowley wasn’t commenting on it, on _any_ of it, and that was making Ezra’s head spin. “Sorry. I can— you don’t have to—” 

“Socks,” Crowley said. “Okay. I’ll be quick, I promise.” 

He was. There was a soft sound a few moments later, which Ezra guessed to be his socks joining his shirt on the bedside table. He could feel Crowley watching him, and his cheeks burned under Crowley’s gaze. 

“Sorry,” Ezra murmured, eyes still shut even as his blush raged across his face. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I’m sor—” 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” 

At that, Ezra forced himself to open his eyes. Crowley was standing a few feet away, hands tucked into his front pockets. 

“Damn,” Crowley said quickly when he saw that Ezra’s eyes were open. “Lamp. Hold on, I’ll turn it off.” 

“That’s fi—” Ezra bit off the end of his protest. Saying that things were fine, that things were good, that he was okay… those were habits he’d formed long ago. He had mostly broken them now, at least when he was with Anathema or Mark or James, but sometimes his tongue’s muscle memory would kick in again. So Ezra shook his head and said, “That would, ah. Lovely. Would be lovely, thank you.” 

The light disappeared from the room with a faint click, and Ezra lay down on his back, stretching himself out on Crowley’s bed. He pressed his body downward like he was trying to make a permanent indentation in the mattress, feeling the coolness of the bedclothes beneath his fingers. They were made of a fabric that Ezra’s frazzled brain liked, so he pushed himself further into them. 

He liked to be flat on his back when he felt like this, when the world was all too much all at once. He liked to spread his fingers out and press them down, liked to feel something under every inch of his body. It was grounding, although he’d never quite figured out why. 

When the maelstrom in Ezra’s mind started to slow a few minutes later, he began to take deeper breaths. Square breathing, his therapist had once called it. In for four seconds, hold for four seconds, out for four seconds, hold for four seconds. It made him focus on something internal, something he could control. 

Finally, after some undetermined span of time, Ezra felt a shaky sort of calm settle over him. When he rubbed at the bedspread with his fingers, the sound was barely audible, and some of the tension in Ezra’s chest melted away. 

“Crowley,” he said, a near-whisper. “Are you still there?” 

“Right here, angel.” Crowley’s voice was coming from the ground next to the bed, and Ezra frowned. He wriggled over to the edge and fumbled for the lamp, feeling for the switch. 

When he found it, he looked down to find Crowley blinking up at him, warm eyes wide. Crowley was sitting with his back against the bed, his head tilted back against the top of the mattress. 

“Hi, handsome,” Crowley said, a tiny smile appearing on his lips. 

The words of apology that had been rising in Ezra’s throat were scattered by the force of his gasp. Crowley was _mad,_ clearly. Certifiably insane. There wasn’t a mirror within Ezra’s line of sight, but he knew what he’d see if there were one. He would find a version of himself who was even paler than usual, his curls squished and poking out at odd angles from the back of his head, sitting shakily on his boyfriend’s bed. He certainly would not call himself _handsome._ But Crowley had, and there was an earnestness in his voice that made Ezra believe that he actually might have meant it. 

So Ezra said, “Hello,” and Crowley’s smile widened. 

“What do you need?” Crowley was pushing himself away from the bed, tucking his knobby knees under himself as he got to his feet. “Tea? Water? A blanket?” 

“I’m alright,” Ezra said. His voice quivered slightly, but that was to be expected. The world would be unsteady for a while, Ezra knew. It always was, after. “Thank you.” 

“You sure?” Crowley’s hands were making their way back toward his pockets. 

“I—” Ezra paused, and Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Actually, er, there is something.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Can you hold my hand?” 

Crowley blinked at him. “What?” 

“It might seem like a silly request,” Ezra said quickly, hating the warmth that was once again rising under the skin of his face, “and you can certainly say no. But I thought I would ask.” 

“It’s not silly.” Crowley took a couple of hesitant steps forward. “Just wasn’t expecting you to ask, ‘s all. You, ah. Moved away from me, at the start, so I wasn’t sure if you wanted—” 

“It wasn’t you.” Ezra shook his head. “It didn’t have anything to do with you. Sometimes my mind just… can’t handle the world as it is. Sounds, sights, smells, movement, touches.” 

“Okay.” Crowley didn’t ask any more questions, and he wasn’t looking at Ezra like he thought that a psychiatry visit might be in order. Instead, he took another long step forward and perched himself on the edge of the bed, tucking one knee under the other thigh. 

“It’s so strange,” Ezra said as he reached for Crowley’s hand, which Crowley offered to him with no hesitation. “When I— when the world is like that for me, I can’t handle too much touch. Certain fabrics irritate me. My clothes are normally okay, but occasionally, ah.” 

“They’re not,” Crowley said. He was allowing Ezra to pull him closer, and he settled against the headboard with his hand still clasped in Ezra’s. 

“Yes,” Ezra muttered with a meaningful glance toward the bedside table. “Sometimes they’re not. And sometimes there is too much pressure from someone’s touch, or else there’s too little. It’s hard to navigate.” 

“Okay,” Crowley said gently. 

“But as I said, it’s strange.” Ezra took a deep breath and leaned his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “Because when it’s over, the thing I want most is to be held. Even if it’s just my hand—” he punctuated this with a firm squeeze of Crowley’s slender hand “—it helps.” 

Crowley gave a considering grunt, and then he asked, “Would it help more if I held _you?_ ” 

“Sorry?” 

“I could hold you, if you want me to.” 

Suddenly, Ezra was keenly aware of the fact that he was bare-chested. He hadn’t had the energy to be self-conscious about his body when Crowley had helped him out of his shirt, but the little twinges of uncertainty were hastily creeping back into his mind. 

“Do _you_ want to?” 

“Yes.” It was an instant response, and Ezra suppressed a shiver at the weight that Crowley had given the word. There was no room for skepticism when Crowley said it like that. “But if you’d rather, I dunno, not do this, it’s fine.” 

“I’m not wearing a shirt,” Ezra said. 

Crowley chuckled above him, his breath ruffling Ezra’s hair. “I know.” 

“Should I put it back on?” 

There was a pause, and Ezra didn’t dare breathe. 

And then Crowley said, “If you want. But only if it’ll make _you_ more comfortable, yeah? Not… don’t do it for my sake. I’ve told you before, I think you’re beautiful, and I don’t want you to—” 

Ezra kissed him. Soft and short, a simple press of lips against lips. 

“Gnh,” Crowley said when Ezra settled himself down against Crowley’s side again. “Right. Guess I’ll be telling you how pretty you are every single bloody day, then.” 

Ezra buried a smile in Crowley’s chest. 

“To be clear,” Crowley said a few moments later, “was that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ to the whole me-holding-you idea?” 

“Yes.” A thought struck Ezra, and he turned his face upward to see Crowley grinning. “Although, I do rather feel like I’m at a disadvantage.” 

“Mm?” 

“You’re still wearing a shirt.” Crowley’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, and Ezra hurried to clarify. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s only… well, you are rather dashing, and I just thought it might be nice.” 

Crowley shifted away, pulling his fingers out from between Ezra’s, and reached backward for the top hem of his shirt. 

“I’m not as nice to look at as you are,” Crowley said as he jerked his shirt over his head and tossed it on top of Ezra’s. “Can promise you that much.” 

Crowley’s chest was thin, much like the rest of him. It bore patches of ink in various places, and Ezra vowed to study them later in better light. There was a dark line of circles crawling down Crowley’s right side, and a collection of what looked like constellations rested beneath his collarbones. There were a few other things as well, but Ezra couldn’t quite make them out. 

“Oh,” Ezra whispered. “Lovely.” 

Crowley made a scoffing noise and slid down the bed with a few wriggling motions. He tugged on Ezra’s hand, and Ezra moved to lay beside him. 

“Can I—” Ezra shifted down further and rolled onto his side. He draped an arm over Crowley’s stomach, tucking his hand against Crowley’s hip as he shifted his head onto the left side of Crowley’s chest. “Is this okay?” 

Crowley answered with a pleased-sounding hum. He shoved an arm underneath Ezra, bringing his hand up to rest on Ezra’s left shoulder. His other hand landed against Ezra’s forearm, his fingers already beginning to trace little circles on Ezra’s skin. 

It must have been nearly a half hour before either of them spoke again. In the time that had passed, Ezra had closed his eyes and fallen into the grey nothing-space between sleep and wakefulness. The sound of Crowley’s voice pushed him back toward consciousness. 

“I think you’re amazing,” Crowley said softly, and Ezra jolted. 

“What?” 

“You’re amazing,” Crowley repeated. When Ezra looked up at him, there was a little smile on his lips. “I’ve never met anyone like you.” 

“I’m not anything special,” protested Ezra. “I’m a grad student who’s studying a language I already know how to speak, and my grandest dream is to run a bookshop. I’m _different,_ and not in ways that I’ve often been led to believe are good. I am perfectly unremarkable in every respect except the ones that make me stick out like a sore thumb.” 

Crowley’s grip on Ezra’s shoulder tightened, and he pressed Ezra’s arm more firmly into the warm skin of his flat stomach. Ezra felt like Crowley was trying to crush their bodies together, merge two into one, and he found that he didn’t mind at all. 

“You are… you’re fucking _anything_ but unremarkable, Ezra.” And then Ezra was being hauled up Crowley’s body, Crowley’s big beautiful hands urging him to lie next to Crowley on the pillow. Crowley turned and lay on his side, nearly nose-to-nose with Ezra. “And I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

All of the air left Ezra’s lungs in an instant. His tongue lay heavy against his teeth, and he knew that he wouldn’t have been able to coax it into forming words if he’d tried. 

Ezra had never in his life been anyone’s ‘best thing,’ and he didn’t know what to do now that he was _Crowley’s._ Crowley, gorgeous and wonderful and kind and talented and brilliant and gentle, thought that Ezra was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and Ezra couldn’t begin to understand that. 

So he stopped trying to understand, and he gave up on forming a verbal reply, and he did the only thing he could think to do. He kissed Crowley full on the mouth, raising the arm that wasn’t pinned under Crowley’s thin torso to cup the side of Crowley’s face. 

Crowley made a little startled squeaking noise against Ezra’s lips even as he kissed back. He started making more sounds when Ezra pulled back to drop kisses against Crowley’s cheek, neck, chin, and nose. They were little hums, soft in the back of Crowley’s throat, and Ezra’s heart beat a little faster with every one. 

Eventually, Ezra tucked his head under Crowley’s chin, slightly out of breath and more than a little pink in the cheeks. 

“Thank you,” Ezra said, lips brushing the bare skin of Crowley’s collarbone when he spoke. “For… for staying.” 

There were so many things that he wasn’t saying, so many things that he’d decided not to say. They were apologies, mostly — things like ‘I’m sorry you had to see me break down today,’ and ‘I’m sorry that I can’t be normal’ — but Ezra hated that he even felt the need to say them. He didn’t think that Crowley would like them, either, and so he’d opted for something else. It was another thing his therapist had suggested (“Maybe you can try saying ‘Thank you’ instead of ‘I’m sorry,’ Ezra. You tend to apologize for existing, and that seems to be a bit counterproductive, don’t you think?”). Judging from the low rumbling in Crowley’s throat, Crowley approved. 

“Always,” Crowley whispered back. “Any time. I’ll make myself hard to get rid of, stick around so much that you’ll be begging me to leave you alone.” 

That thought scrambled what was left of Ezra’s sanity, so he buried his nose in the side of Crowley’s neck and said, “I don’t know why I’d ever do that.” 

Crowley hummed again and pulled Ezra closer. Silence settled over the room once more, and this time, Ezra let sleep take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are a large part of what's keeping me going right now! Thank you all for your kind words -- they help me want to continue writing!


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...there is literally so much that happens in this chapter I'm so sorry it's a mess 
> 
> Return of the cafe dads, discussions of Van Morrison, and The Ace Talk (TM) included in the mess!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [strolls back in here two and a half months later with no warning] Ladies, gents, and non-binary friends, I hope you're well! And still here. If you've moved on to other things, though, I completely understand. 
> 
> I'm _so_ sorry that I took such a long hiatus from this fic! It was unplanned, believe me. There has just been A Lot happening. Regardless, I'm back with an update! I hope you enjoy it. To those of you who have left comments that have still gone unanswered: I'm working on them! I'll get to you as soon as I can, and in the meantime, please know how much I appreciate you. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: language, mostly. Also, just as a note: I don't own Van Morrison or any of his music or lyrics.

Anathema was standing in Ezra’s room, holding two long coats in her hands. 

“Which one?” 

Ezra paused in the middle of buttoning his shirt and cocked his head. “Hmm.” 

“They both work with my outfit — I don’t trust your fashion sense as far as I can throw it, but I just can’t tell which I like best.” She shuffled closer, practically thrusting the coats under his nose. One of them was a deep reddish-purple, the color of red wine. The other was blue plaid and made of some type of furry fabric, and Ezra wrinkled his nose. 

“Red one.” 

“Why?” 

Ezra finished doing up his shirt and tugged a jumper over his head. “The blue one looks like… well, I don’t know what it looks like, exactly, but I like the red one more.” 

“It’s not red.” 

“It’s  _ practically  _ red,” Ezra said with a sigh, stepping around Anathema and walking toward the sitting room. His own tan-colored trench coat (a gift from Anathema for Christmas his first year at university) was draped over the back of the sofa. “You asked for my opinion, and now you have it.” 

Anathema frowned at the blue jacket, holding it an arm’s length away. “I suppose this one does look a bit like I murdered some muppets to get the material for it, doesn’t it?” 

Ezra made another face. “Really,  _ must  _ you say things like that?” 

“What?” Anathema called over her shoulder, a laugh twisting the end of the question. “It’s not like I’m never going to wear it. I’m definitely going to wear it, even if it makes me look like a monster.” 

The buzzer blared through the flat before Ezra had a chance to formulate a response. 

“They’re here,” Ezra said, trying to force as much patience into his voice as he could. “We ought to be getting a wiggle on. We’re going to be late.” 

“Keep your shirt on,” Anathema said, re-emerging from her room dressed in the wine-colored coat. 

Ezra blinked at her. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Anathema grinned at him and pecked him on the cheek. “Nevermind. Did you tell them we’re coming down?” 

“No,” Ezra said, flushing red and moving to the speaker box to do just that. “Hello, darling, we’ll be down in a moment.” 

The speaker crackled to life, and a voice that decidedly did  _ not  _ belong to Ezra’s boyfriend said,  _ “Uh. Right, good.”  _

“Remind me of his name again?” Anathema asked as they made their way down the stairs, her arm laced comfortably through the crook of Ezra’s elbow. 

“Newt.” 

“Like the animal?” 

“Yes,” Ezra said, and then he hesitated. “Actually, I’m not sure. It might be short for something.” 

“He sounds cute.” 

“Does he?” 

Anathema rolled her eyes. “ _ Is _ he cute?” 

“Not my type.” 

“Is he  _ my  _ type?” 

“Your type is rarely a ‘he,’” Ezra pointed out. 

“True,” Anathema said. “But sometimes.” 

“Why don’t you at least meet the bloke before you start plotting your way into dating him? The poor chap’s a bit anxiety-prone, and you must promise me that you won’t give him a heart attack before we get to my dads’.” 

With a grin and a wink, Anathema said, “We’ll see.” 

She pushed open the door to their apartment building and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Ezra trailed after her, trying to smooth over the slightly horrified look on his face.

Newt’s blue three-wheeled monstrosity of a car idled by the kerb, and Ezra noticed with more than a bit of apprehension that the entire thing seemed to be shaking. He found himself hoping that he wouldn’t be subjected to another evening of Crowley’s driving; as good at Crowley was at playing the guitar and singing and kissing and speaking and talking and existing, Ezra had learned not to count safe driving among his beau’s many skills. Newt, however, struck Ezra as an overly-cautious driver (this was an assumption based on appearances only — it just didn’t seem likely that the pale, skinny, bespectacled IT worker had half the lead foot of his roommate), and Ezra shot him a quick smile as he walked over to kiss Crowley on the bottom of the jaw. 

“You look exceedingly beautiful tonight, my dear,” Ezra said softly, and Crowley’s cheeks turned a fetching shade of red. 

“You too, angel.” 

“He looks like he always does,” said Anathema unhelpfully from behind them. “Hi, Crowley.” 

“Hi,” Crowley said, slipping his hand into Ezra’s and giving it a squeeze. He leaned down, lips brushing Ezra’s ear as he whispered, “You do look like you always do, but you always look beautiful, so.” 

“Hush,” said Ezra, not meaning it in the slightest. 

Anathema had made her way over to Newt, hand outstretched. Newt took it, his large brown eyes even wider than usual. 

“Anathema Device.” 

“Newt,” Newt said, casting a panicked glance in Crowley’s direction as Anathema shook his hand like she was trying to break it off. “Newton Pulsifer.” 

“Ah, so not like the animal, then.” Anathema wiggled her eyebrows in Ezra’s direction. 

“Yes, yes, very good,” Ezra said shortly. “Now that everyone’s been introduced, can we get on? I’m afraid we’re going to be late.” 

“Wouldn’t want that,” Crowley said, giving Ezra’s hand another squeeze. “C’mon, kids.” 

The drive to Mark and James’s flat was mercifully safe. Crowley grumbled about the pace of Newt’s driving approximately once every three minutes, and each time Ezra told him to be patient and kissed him on the cheek (which, Ezra realized in hindsight, might have been an incentive for Crowley’s continued complaints). 

It wasn’t until all four of them had stepped into the lift in the building that Anathema turned to Newt and asked, “Why is your car called Dick Turpin?” 

Newt made a squeaking sound, and Crowley burst out laughing. 

“Go on then,” Crowley said when he’d caught his breath. “I told you she’d ask.” 

“No one ever has,” Newt said quietly, shoving his pale fingers into his front pockets and rocking forward onto his toes. He was grinning like a child on Christmas morning as he turned to Anathema and began to explain. “So, Dick Turpin was a famous highwayman.” 

“Yes,” said Anathema. “And?” 

“It’s called Dick Turpin because everywhere it goes, it holds up traffic,” Newt said proudly, flashing finger guns in Anathema’s direction. 

She stared at him. Crowley stifled a snort. 

“I’m sorry I asked,” Anathema said after a moment. “I am so,  _ so  _ sorry I asked.” 

The lift dinged cheerily, doors sliding open as Newt’s smile stretched even further across his face. 

“That is a terrible joke, you know,” said Ezra. 

“He knows,” Crowley said. 

“I know,” Newt said. “Great, isn’t it?” 

“Good  _ lord, _ ” said Anathema, but she was watching Newt with a small smile on her face.

Almost as soon as Ezra was done knocking on the door, it swung open. James stood on the other side, a blue dishtowel draped over one shoulder and a whisk in his hand. 

“Hey, kid,” he said to Ezra, stepping out of the doorway and gesturing to the interior of the flat with his whiskless hand. “Come in, you lot — I’ve got cocoa on the stove, and the shepherd’s pie should be done in a tick.” 

Once everyone was inside, Ezra dropped Crowley’s hand for long enough to give James a hug, and then he slid his hand back into Crowley’s and said, “James, this is my boyfriend, Crowley.” 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” James said warmly, reaching for Crowley’s hand. “My husband’s a bit of a gossip, and there’s really no stopping him when he and Anathema get going about someone.” 

There was a disgruntled-sounding “Oi!” from the kitchen, and the room warmed with the sound of laughter. 

“Good to meet you,” said Crowley, giving James’s hand a firm shake. “This is my flatmate, Newt — thanks so much for the invite to dinner tonight.” 

“Well, I was feeling a bit left out. Mark met you a while back, but I hadn’t yet had the pleasure.” James winked at Ezra and moved to shake Newt’s hand. “Hey, mate. James Powers.” 

Anathema tugged off her coat and hung it on a hook near the door before wandering into the kitchen in search of Mark. Ezra could hear their conversation bubble to life, Mark’s voice pitching up in anticipation of the gossip that was nearly guaranteed to come. James had started to talk about the café and ask about school, and before long, all six members of the dinner party were standing in the kitchen, talking over one another and filling the flat with noise. 

It was a good sort of noise, though, in Ezra’s opinion. It was the sort of noise that made his heart beat a little harder, made his brain a little happier. His favorite people were all in the same room, laughing and chatting and drinking mugs of peppermint-Schnapps-spiked cocoa, and for the moment, the world was exactly the right kind of loud. 

*********

After dinner was eaten and dishes were washed (a team effort led by Newt, which surprised exactly zero people in the flat), James brought ginger biscuits into the sitting room. Crowley was crouched on the floor, flicking through James’s record collection in search of “the right music, angel, it has to fit the vibe” and discussing his findings with Mark, who was sitting on one side of the sofa. 

“Is it a Van Morrison type of night?” Crowley asked, honey-soft eyes twinkling as he winked at Ezra. 

“Dunno, mate,” said Mark for the fourth time in as many minutes. “Music is Jamie’s thing, really.” 

“Van’s fine,” James said as he settled into the sofa and wrapped an arm around his husband’s shoulders. “Good choice, Crowley.” 

Ezra plucked a biscuit off of the tray on the coffee table and wandered over to Crowley, munching thoughtfully. “Who’s Van Morrison?” 

Crowley almost dropped the record that was balanced precariously on his fingertips.

“What?” The question was uttered with the same incredulous tone by four of the five other people in the room. Only Newt was silent, staring at Ezra with a sort of sympathetic confusion. 

“How,” Crowley asked slowly, “do you know all the words to every Beatles song in existence but have never heard of Van Morrison?” 

“I listened to a lot of Beatles growing up.” 

“That’s-” Crowley shook his head vigorously. “That’s, no. How have you- bloody hell.” 

“We’ve failed him,” James said from the couch, tilting his head so it rested against Mark’s. “Babes, we’ve  _ failed  _ him.” 

“Brown-Eyed Girl,” Anathema suggested. She flapped her hand in Ezra’s direction, which meant that Ezra was supposed to gain some sort of insight from that series of words. 

It was Ezra’s turn to say, “What?” 

“Bloody hell,” Crowley said again. 

“It’s okay, Ez.” Mark was petting James’s hair in a series of soothing motions, and he made a shh-ing sound when James picked his head up to protest. “Put the record on, Crowley. Show our boy what he’s missing.” 

With nimble fingers, Crowley slid the record into place and dropped the needle onto it. The speakers crackled to life, and a few moments later, a man’s voice flowed out. 

_ “Half a mile from the county fair, and the rain came pouring down…”  _

“C’mon,” Crowley said, taking Ezra’s hand and pulling him into the center of the room.

“What are you doing?” 

“Dancing with you, you beautiful idiot.” And indeed, it seemed that Crowley was doing just that. He settled his hands on Ezra’s waist, so Ezra looped his own arms somewhat awkwardly around Crowley’s neck. 

“Do people dance to Von Morrison?” 

“ _ Van, _ ” Crowley and James said simultaneously, and then Crowley said, “People dance to whatever they like, angel.” 

“And you like dancing to this?” 

“I like this, yeah.” 

“Oh,” said Ezra. “Alright, then.” 

When Crowley spun them around in a clumsy circle, Ezra saw that James had gotten to his feet and was holding his hand out to Mark, who took it. 

“You started something,” Ezra said into Crowley’s shoulder.

“Did I?” The grin was audible in Crowley’s voice, and Ezra pressed a kiss to the top of his chest. 

They spun again, rocking from side to side, and Ezra heard Anathema say, “Gonna ask me to dance, then?” and a squeaking sound that might have (very charitably) been a “Yes” from Newt. Soon enough, another set of soft thumps joined the rhythm that the four other pairs of feet were making on the carpeted floor.

“Crowley,” said Ezra. “Sing?” 

Crowley’s soft chuckle floated down from above Ezra’s head. “In a sec.” 

_ “And it stoned me,”  _ Van Morrison repeated for what felt like the twentieth time,  _ “and it stoned me to my soul…”  _

The final notes of the song faded out a few moments later, and Crowley shifted his grip on Ezra. One hand stayed where it was, but the other reached up and took one of Ezra’s arms away from his neck. Crowley laced their fingers together, holding their arms at the height of his hip as the sound drums and piano floated out of the turntable’s speakers. 

Ezra dropped his other hand to Crowley’s hip, a mirror image of the way Crowley was holding him. He was rewarded with a thousand-watt grin, and Crowley changed the gait of their dance as he began to sing. 

“Well, it’s a marvelous night for a moondance, with the stars up above in your eyes,” Crowley sang, perfectly on rhythm and tune with the record. Behind him, James was also singing along, evidently not sparing a thought or a care for the actual melody of the song. Anathema was laughing, tripping over Newt’s feet as he tried to spin her in a circle, and Crowley’s velvet voice faltered momentarily when Ezra laid his head against Crowley’s chest. 

“Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?” Crowley, James, and Van Morrison asked. 

_ My love,  _ Ezra’s brain registered.  _ My love. Oh, Christ’s sake. He’s my love, isn’t he? _

Ezra expected panic to bloom in his chest. He waited for the world to become too loud, too much, too big, too bright, but it didn’t. Ezra was in love, and it was — by some impossible stroke of luck, or divine intervention, or maybe by his own certainty that right here in Crowley’s arms was somehow the safest place he’d ever been — perfectly all right. It was all right, and it was  _ right,  _ and Ezra let it be.

_ For tonight,  _ Ezra thought to himself as Crowley sang, “One more moondance with you, in the moonlight, on a magic night” and pulled Ezra even closer,  _ for tonight I can just… I can just be here, and I can just love him, and nothing has to change. For tonight, he just gets to be loved, and I just get to love him.  _

They danced through what must have been half of the album, spinning and swaying and rocking. Crowley’s heartbeat was a complement to the beat of the music, and Crowley’s voice was an unending stream of comfort that washed over Ezra. It made him feel warm, bathed him in softness, and wrapped itself around his heart. It was his favorite sound in the world. 

Eventually, Ezra’s feet got tired. He and Crowley sat on the sofa, watching James and Mark continue to dance. They moved together like their bodies were built to do it; they never stumbled or took stuttering half-steps, and they took turns twirling out from one another. They always came back together, though, drawn to each other like they couldn’t bear to be apart. 

“We’ll have to learn to dance like that,” Ezra said to Crowley. 

“Sure, angel.” 

“They took classes.” Ezra snuggled into Crowley’s side, kissed his cheek. “Mark told me. It was their anniversary present to each other a year or so back — something they could do together, a new skill they could learn.” 

“We can do that,” Crowley said. “For our anniversary.” 

Ezra stared at him. 

“If you like, y’know. No, ah. No pressure.” 

“I’d like that,” Ezra said quickly. “Yes.” 

“Good.” 

“Quite.” 

“Settled, then.” 

“Seems to be,” Ezra said, unable to hide the smile that was crawling across his lips. 

Across the living room from Mark and James, Anathema and Newt were sitting on chairs they’d brought in from the kitchen, mugs of hot tea nestled in their hands. They were talking in low tones, and Ezra noticed with mild surprise that Anathema was smiling, laughing into her tea and tilting her head toward Newt to better hear what he was saying. 

Ezra poked Crowley in the ribs. “I think she fancies him.” 

“Who?” 

“Anathema, darling.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know she went in for people like Newt.” 

“What, IT specialists?” 

“No,” Crowley said with a startled laugh. “I mean, now you mention it, it does seem a bit out of character. She’s a bit witchy, isn’t she?” 

“She prefers ‘occultist.’”

“Ah,” said Crowley. “Of course. Anyway, I meant men. Didn’t think she was interested in blokes.” 

“It’s been known to happen.” 

Crowley tilted his head and looked Newt and Anathema over with a critical eye. “You really think she might be interested?” 

“It’s possible.” 

“Want to put a wager on it?” 

Ezra blinked at him. “For money?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Could do. I was thinking more along the lines of a dinner.” 

Ezra considered this for a moment before, “Yes, fine.” 

“Bet you a dinner she’s just being polite,” Crowley said. 

“Bet _you_ a dinner she asks him on a date,” Ezra countered. 

Crowley kissed him on the top of his head, and Ezra blushed a rather vibrant shade of pink. 

“You’re on, angel.” 

Three hours later, Anathema sauntered into Ezra’s bedroom. She plucked his book out of his hands, ignored his startled yelp, and said, “I asked Newt if he’d like to take me to lunch sometime.” 

Forty seconds after that, Crowley’s phone screen lit up with a text from Ezra:  _ You owe me a dinner.  _

*********

Ezra had always loved St. James’ Park. He liked feeding the ducks, walking on the paths by the water, and buying something seasonally-appropriate from a food vendor. There were usually also people around, and Ezra liked watching them. He made up stories in his head about them — the gaunt-faced man with the briefcase who never looked up from his phone was late for his company’s executive meeting, the blonde woman in red patent leather pumps had forgotten that she’d promised to take her son to the park and hadn’t brought along proper footwear, the freckle-faced person in the wheelchair was meeting someone for a date — and made it a game for himself. He knew that his stories probably weren’t accurate, but for some reason, it made him feel like he knew the people he made them about. 

On this particular Saturday, three days after the dinner at Ezra’s found-dads’ flat, Crowley had a mid-afternoon gig at a cafe in Piccadilly. Ezra had talked him into taking an earlier train so that they could go to the park, which is why the two of them were currently walking the paths of St. James’ with warm drinks in their gloved hands. Crowley had bought Ezra a cocoa to fight off the autumn chill, ordering a black coffee for himself and drinking it in quick gulps as he listened to Ezra narrate the imaginary lives of the very real people in front of them. In comparison, Ezra was taking slow sips of his cocoa, savoring it as they walked. 

“...and he’s new to the UK. He’s been caught unawares by the rain too many times, which is why he has the umbrella and black raincoat even though the sun is out.” 

Crowley leaned down and pressed a kiss to Ezra’s temple, taking care not to bump Ezra’s hip with his guitar case. “Mm. See, I think you’re wrong about that bloke. I think he’s a secret agent. He keeps checking his watch, yeah? Looking over his shoulder.” 

Ezra laughed. “He’s not a  _ secret agent,  _ Crowley. You’ve been watching those Bond films again, haven’t you?” 

“‘M telling you, angel,” Crowley said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that was, in Ezra’s opinion, entirely unsuitable for a public setting, “he’s MI6.” 

“Oh, is he?” 

“Obviously.” Crowley tipped the last of his coffee into his mouth and tossed the empty cup into a nearby bin. He switched his guitar case to his outside hand. “Everybody knows that the best place for clandestine meetings in London is St. James’ Park.” 

“Who’s ‘everybody,’ then?” 

“You know,” Crowley said with a smirk as he laced his fingers through Ezra’s, “folks. People. The masses.” 

“Very specific.”

“Look, I can’t tell you where I’m getting my intel from, can I? It’s top-secret, what I’m telling you.” 

“Oh, well in that case,” Ezra said. “Don’t tell me any more. I’m assuming this is one of those ‘tell me and kill me’ types of situations, yes?” 

“Nah,” Crowley said as he brushed his lips across the swell of Ezra’s cheek. “Just got to maintain my air of mystery.” 

“But of course.” 

They stood in silence for a moment, and then Crowley said, “Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” 

Fear struck through Ezra’s chest like a knife blade. He’d only just realized that he was falling in love with (had fallen in love with? Was always going to keep falling in love with?) Crowley, and here Crowley was, standing tall with a serious look on his face. Based on Ezra’s extensive knowledge of literature and limited knowledge of romantic films, Crowley’s tone of voice sounded like the start to a break-up. 

But Ezra tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he asked, “Oh?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “It’s not… it’s not  _ bad,  _ okay? Don’t worry.” 

“You’re not smiling,” Ezra said softly. 

“It’s just…” Crowley trailed off, but he tightened his grip on Ezra’s hand. “Look, it’s just complicated.” 

“Oh,” said Ezra. 

“Let’s, uh. Sit. Can we sit?” 

“Of course.” 

As soon as they were seated on a nearby bench, Ezra noticed that Crowley was fidgeting. His fingers were drumming against the hard exterior of his guitar case, and he wasn’t meeting Ezra’s eyes. 

“Crowley?” 

“I didn’t want to do this here,” Crowley said, words falling from his mouth in a rush. “But we live with people, you know? And we don’t really, uh, spend time alone very often.” 

Ezra was, to put it mildly, extremely confused. “We’re alone now.” 

“Not alone-alone,” Crowley said, waving his hand in a vague gesture to indicate the entire part. “There are people around. Things. Walls have ears- well, not walls. Trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must do, it’s how they hear other ducks.” 

“Crowley,” Ezra said again, more firmly this time. “What on earth are you going on about?” 

Crowley sighed. “This is just… gnh. Not where I wanted to have this conversation.” 

“Well,” said Ezra. He was running out of questions to ask, so he started to rub small circles into the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb. It helped him calm down when someone did that to him, and it was all he could think to do. “Where did you want to have it?” 

“Dunno. Not here.” 

“Why?” 

Crowley ran his empty hand through his beautiful hair and said, “Because it’s  _ important,  _ Ezra, and I don’t want you to think I’m not taking this — taking  _ you  _ — seriously.” 

“I know that you take me seriously,” Ezra said softly. “Believe me, I know.” 

“Look, okay, the thing is,” Crowley stammered, “the thing  _ is,  _ y’know, that I have a thing to tell you but I have to tell you something else first.” 

“Ah.” 

“And it’s okay if you think it’s weird or too soon or if you want me to not say it again,” Crowley continued, hardly seeming to notice that Ezra was there at all anymore, “because I’m not very used to saying it. This first thing. Well, either thing. Both.” 

“Okay,” said Ezra. He pressed faster circles into Crowley’s skin with his thumb. 

“See, the first thing, it’s really important that you believe me about it. Before we get to the other thing.” 

“I will.” 

“Okay.” There was doubt there, threaded through the spaces between those four small letters, and Ezra hated it. 

“Crowley, I will.” 

Crowley stopped tugging at his hair and looked Ezra in the eye. “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Ezra said. “But please, dearest, you’re scaring me. Whatever it is, I promise I—” 

“I love you.” The words were out of Crowley’s mouth before Ezra could finish his promise. They hung in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. 

“Oh,” Ezra whispered. 

“Just, uh. Thought you should know.” Crowley was staring at the ground now, kicking at the dirt beneath his feet with the toe of his boot. “Anyway. The other thing, the thing I really wanted to talk to you about, it’s—” 

Ezra set his cup of cocoa down onto the bench and pressed his hand over Crowley’s mouth. 

“Mmph,” said Crowley. 

“I love you, too,” Ezra said. “I thought  _ you  _ should know.” 

“Mmngh,” said Crowley. Ezra could feel Crowley’s lips curling into a smile beneath his fingers, and he dropped his hand back to his side. 

“Go ahead, then, my love,” Ezra said gently. “What did you need to talk about?” 

The inside of Ezra’s chest felt tight, full up with the feeling of loving and being loved. He tried to get his heart to settle, tried to get his lungs to inflate and deflate like they should, but his body refused to listen. Crowley made a happy humming noise when Ezra called him ‘my love,’ and that made Ezra lose control of himself entirely. He stretched up and kissed the patch of skin just in front of Crowley’s ear, bringing the stuttering beginnings of Crowley’s next sentence to a momentary halt. 

“Sorry,” Ezra said. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” 

“I love you.” 

“Gh.” 

“Truly, I do.” 

“Nhmn,  _ angel. _ ” 

“Yes?” 

“‘M trying to tell you something, remember?” 

“Yes,” Ezra said, suddenly feeling like being just a little bit more of a bastard because he was enjoying the way Crowley’s cheeks and ears were reddenning with every word he said. “Yes, my darling. Go on, I love you.” 

“Oi,” said Crowley. 

Ezra wiggled in his seat on the bench and kissed Crowley’s cheek, his lips landing a few centimeters from the corner of Crowley’s mouth. 

“Hnng.” Crowley cleared his throat, shook his head from side to side, and then bent to kiss Ezra between the eyebrows. “Right. ‘Kay. So, the other thing.” 

“Yes, that.” 

“You, uh. You know that I think you’re beautiful, don’t you?” 

“You might have mentioned it before,” Ezra teased. “Once or twice.” 

“I’m serious, angel,” Crowley said, and when Ezra looked up at his face, he could see that it was true. “You know you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, yeah?” 

“Mm.” 

“And you know that I like kissing you. Love it. ‘S my favorite thing to do, really. I like it more than playing guitar, I think.” 

“Oh,” said Ezra faintly. “Oh, Crowley, I like kissing you, too.” 

“Cuddling,” Crowley said. “I… I want to do that. All the time. Can’t stop thinking about it sometimes — it’s bloody distracting, honestly.” 

“That can be arranged, I should think.” 

Crowley nodded stiffly. “Right. Good. Just, uh. Wanted you to know that I like all of the things we do. Holding hands, hugging, kissing, cuddling. All that.” 

“Okay.” Anxiety prickled at the edge of Ezra’s mind. He had known that this conversation was coming. He’d been trying to find ways to bring it up, to tell Crowley that he wasn’t interested in anything sexual, but no time had ever seemed to be the right one. They were doing so well. They were in love, and things were good, and Ezra hadn’t wanted to spoil it. 

“You’ve been really patient with me, and I don’t want you to think I haven’t noticed. You haven’t pushed me at all, and you’re  _ so good  _ about consent. It’s ridiculously attractive, that.” 

“Oh,” said Ezra. There was a small word hanging unspoken at the end of Crowley’s sentences now.  _ But.  _

“But,” Crowley said, and it was unspoken no longer, “I’m not exactly interested in doing other things.” 

Ezra’s mouth dropped open slightly, and Crowley cringed. 

“You remember when I told you I was bisexual? I asked if it would be a problem.” 

“Yes,” said Ezra a little too forcefully, hope blooming in his chest with every passing moment. “I remember.” 

“There’s something I didn’t tell you then, and I should have.” Crowley took a breath. “I’m ace, angel. Asexual. Fairly close to the sex-repulsed end of the spectrum, if I’m honest.” 

“I love you,” Ezra said. 

Crowley stared at him. “Eh?” 

“You’re a wonderful, beautiful, impossibly perfect man, and I love you,” said Ezra. 

“Okay,” Crowley said, drawing out the o-sound. “Good?” 

“I am, too, by the way,” Ezra said then, and Crowley’s brown eyes lit up. “Asexual.” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” 

Ezra tilted his head consideringly. “I suppose Jesus was, yes. Possibly Mary as well, although I’m not sure about Joseph.” 

Laughter seemed to explode from Crowley, a bright sound that tore through the grey ceiling of clouds over London. Ezra’s world was flooded with sunlight, and the man he loved was the source of it. 

“I love you,” Crowley said, and Ezra’s chest became entirely too small for his heart. “Someone’s sake, Ezra Adams. I  _ love  _ you.” 

They sat in silence for a while, watching the people walk by and holding each other’s hands. Ezra finished his cocoa and played with the tiny plastic tab on the lid, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb while he drummed his other fingers against his thigh. 

“C’mon,” Crowley said at last as he reached for his guitar. “Time to go.” 

Ezra allowed Crowley to pull him to his feet, and hand in hand, they walked back out onto the path. 

Crowley nudged Ezra’s shoulder with his arm and gestured to a curly-haired young man in a rumpled suit who was carrying four coffee cups in a cardboard drink carrier. 

“What’s his story then, angel?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the entire reason the Van Morrison section is in here is because one of my dear friends had never heard of him. It was a very Aziraphale moment for her.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something has been bothering Crowley, and Ezra finds out what it is. 
> 
> This chapter contains a frankly ridiculous amount of dialogue, just so you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! 
> 
> I'm so sorry that this update has taken so long. It's been an interesting few months, and I've also been working on a few other WIPs. There will be one more chapter in this fic, and then that'll be it! Thank you all so very much for your kind words, support, and love for this fic. I've had a wonderful time writing it, and I hope you have enjoyed reading it. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: language (I think?)
> 
> Also: the song Crowley sings to Ezra is "I Got You" by Jack Johnson, and it can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhWQSAmXRr4).

Crowley was sitting on the edge of his bed, idly plucking at the strings of his acoustic guitar and staring off into the middle distance, a small frown on his lips. He’d been like that for quite a while, and Ezra was beginning to worry about him. 

“Darling?” Ezra said gently. He closed his book with a soft thump and set it on Crowley’s bedside table as he wiggled closer to where Crowley was seated. 

Crowley jumped, knuckles colliding with the strings of his guitar. He looked startled for a split second before his frown lines faded, mouth curling into a beautifully crooked smile. 

“Hi,” Crowley said. “Sorry. Was, y’know. Somewhere else.” 

“I had noticed that, yes.” 

Crowley looked at the expression on Ezra’s face and wrinkled his nose. “Hey, ‘m fine. Really. Don’t look at me like that.” 

“I’m concerned about you,” Ezra said, rubbing his fingers up and down the seams of his trousers. “You’ve been rather quiet as of late, and I can’t quite figure out why.” 

“It’s not a big deal, Ezra.” 

“There is something, then?” 

Crowley shrugged and bent his head toward his guitar again, fingers playing an unrecognizable tune. “I guess. It’s really not worth getting worked up about, though, I swear.” 

“Is there something I can do?” 

“Nah.” 

Ezra cocked his head. “Would you tell me if there was?” 

Crowley pulled a face. “Might do.” 

“Well,” Ezra said. He slid even closer to Crowley, positioning his body so that their thighs were kissing. Crowley’s fingers stopped their spider-like crawl up the neck of his guitar, and when Ezra looked up, he found Crowley watching him. “I won’t push you, darling. I wouldn’t want you to feel as though I’ve pressured you into divulging information to me that you aren’t comfortable sharing just yet, but. I will be here if and when you want to tell me what’s been going on.” 

“I know that,” Crowley said softly.

“Good,” said Ezra. “Good. Now, my love — would you play something for me?” 

Crowley stifled a smile, clearing his throat. “Thought you were reading.” 

“I’d prefer to listen to you play,” Ezra said, settling back on his elbows and watching Crowley’s face in profile. “If that’s alright with you.” 

The tips of Crowley’s ears pinkened at that, and he twisted his body to face Ezra, tucking his long legs and big feet underneath himself in a criss-cross style. And then he began to play a few notes, whistling an easy tune around a smile, and Ezra found the full force of Crowley’s beauty slam into his chest. 

“Back when all my little goals seemed so important,” Crowley sang quietly, “every pot of gold filled and full of distortion, Heaven was a place still in space not in motion…” 

Ezra took a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting Crowley’s voice (with all of its little pauses and short intakes of breath and wonderfully small vocal runs) wash over him. 

As much as one person could belong to another, Ezra belonged to Crowley. He was Crowley’s to kiss, Crowley’s to hold, Crowley’s to love. Other people loved him, too; James and Mark and Anathema would have physically fought anyone who suggested otherwise, and Ezra knew it. But Crowley was the only one who had the permission, full and unmitigated and free, to love Ezra in the romantic way that his heart had craved for so long. Ezra wanted to be Crowley’s, because he knew that Crowley would never insist that Ezra give up any part of himself in order to make that true. 

Crowley kept singing, the muscles in his inked-up arms and hands flexing as he moved his fingers across the strings, and Ezra sat back and loved him. 

*********

For weeks, Ezra watched Crowley exist in an unsteady sort of silence. Small frowns tugged at the corners of his mouth with increasing regularity, and Crowley’s sentences were often punctuated by heavy sighs. When Ezra looked at Crowley, he could almost see the gears turning inside of his mind, endless thoughts filling the space behind his eyes. Ezra’s concern grew inside of his chest, pressed tightly against his ribs, but he had resolved himself to be patient. Crowley was beautiful and stubborn and clever and bold, and he would tell Ezra what he’d been thinking about when he felt that the time was right. 

The right time was, in Crowley’s mind, at midnight on a weeknight when Ezra was wrapped in his arms, head snuggled against Crowley’s lean chest. Ezra was dozing, listening to the comforting thump of Crowley’s heart beneath his ear, and he was happy. 

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, nudging the top of Ezra’s head with his nose. “You awake?” 

“Mm,” said Ezra. 

“Can we talk?” 

“Of course, my love.” Ezra tightened his grip on Crowley’s shirt, pulling Crowley’s body even closer to his own. He wanted Crowley to be held, to be safe. 

Crowley hummed, a soft sound that started in the back of his throat and rumbled through his chest. “It’s, uh. Bit of a thing, really.” 

“Oh?” 

“About music,” Crowley said. The words fell from his lips in a pile, and Ezra could imagine them stacking up against the backs of his teeth. “I haven’t renewed my busking licence. It’s… I’m done, angel.” 

Ezra lifted his head off of Crowley’s chest, then, searching the lines of Crowley’s face. Crowley was staring across the room, expression unreadable. 

So Ezra said, “Oh, darling,” and kissed Crowley gently on the cheek. 

“I don’t mean I’ll never play again,” Crowley continued, finally shifting his gaze away from the far wall in favor of looking down at Ezra. “It’s just… it’s not gonna be what I do forever, y’know? Not gonna be my line of work.” 

Ezra settled against Crowley’s shoulder, tracing the snake tattoo on Crowley’s arm with a fingertip. “I take it that you’re certain about this?” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “I’m not much of a songwriter, you know that, and I also don’t quite fancy the idea of being in front of huge crowds or recording albums or any of that. Used to, but not, well. Not anymore.” 

“Alright.” 

“And I’ve got a promotion offer at Eden — manager, if you can believe it. Pays better, and I like the work. ‘M gonna accept.” 

“That’s wonderful, my love,” Ezra said softly, pressing a kiss to the skin behind Crowley’s ear. Crowley shivered, so Ezra did it again. “You didn’t tell me about that.” 

“Didn’t know if I was actually gonna get the offer or if I was gonna take it if I did,” Crowley muttered. “I’ve been going back and forth about this decision for, I dunno. Month? Maybe more? Been thinking about it for longer, but when my boss mentioned that she’s moving and that she’d recommend me to take her place at the shop, it all sort of—” Crowley flapped his hand in a circle “—took off. Happened pretty quick.”

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Ezra said gently. “You incredible, beautiful, multi-talented man.” 

Crowley made a huffing sound, a ghost of a laugh. “You’re taking this surprisingly well.” 

Ezra arched an eyebrow. “Surprisingly?” 

“Thought you’d be a bit sad, I guess,” Crowley said, fingers twitching against the bedspread over his thigh. “We only met because of my music, y’know? It’s just, ah. I dunno, Ezra. Thought you might not want…” He stopped talking, eyes cast down at his lap, the words he hadn’t said hanging in the silence. _You might not want me, might not want to be with me._

“Crowley,” Ezra said firmly, “I want this. I want you, do you understand? I am quite fond of your singing voice, yes, but you don’t need to do or be _anything_ you don’t want to do or be. Not for my sake or anyone else’s.” 

Crowley took a shuddering breath and ran his long fingers down the slope of Ezra’s back. His hand was shaking, a slight tremor in his touch, and Ezra tucked himself closer into Crowley’s side. 

“I want you as you are, my love,” Ezra said. “It is my greatest wish for you to be happy.” He kissed the underside of Crowley’s jaw. “And safe.” Another kiss. “And _yourself._ ” 

Crowley’s ears were pink. “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” said Ezra.

“Right,” Crowley said. “Good.”

“I love you, you know.” 

“I love you, too,” Crowley murmured. “Angel.” 

An easy type of silence filled the room, and Ezra closed his eyes once more. He laid his head back down over Crowley’s heart, letting its beat lull him into a state of half-sleep. 

When Crowley spoke again, it was a quiet thing. 

“I’ll still play, angel,” he said. “For you. Whenever you want.” 

Ezra turned his head and pressed his lips to the center of Crowley’s chest. 

“And I might pick up gigs from time to time.” 

“That sounds lovely,” Ezra said sleepily. 

Crowley hummed. “Just thought you should know.” 

“Thank you.” 

Crowley made a soft noise, a collection of consonants, and then his body went slack under Ezra’s. 

“You’re my favorite audience,” Crowley whispered, bringing one hand up to toy with the hair at the back of Ezra’s neck. “Best one I’ve ever had.” 

“Flatterer,” Ezra accused. 

“No, really,” Crowley insisted, winding his fingers gently through Ezra’s curls. “You get this little smile on your face, d’you know that? And you look at me like I’m magic.” 

“You _are_ magic,” Ezra said. 

Crowley laughed, chest shaking. “Nah.” 

“I think you are, my love.” 

Crowley’s forefinger brushed over the shell of Ezra’s ear, making him shiver. “See? ‘S what I mean. No one else looks at me like you do or thinks of me like that. Rather play for you than anyone else in the world.” 

Ezra kissed Crowley’s chest again. “I will always be your audience, darling. Whenever you want me to be.” 

When silence fell this time, no one broke it. Ezra fell asleep with one arm slung around Crowley’s waist and his other hand pressed flat to Crowley’s chest, holding and being held by his love. 

*********

“He can play here if he wants,” Mark said, pouring milk foam into a cappuccino before calling out the name of the person who had placed the order. Ezra was leaning against the counter, sipping at his tea and talking to Mark and James as they worked. 

“Just have him give me a call if he wants to set something up,” said James.

Ezra smiled into his tea. “I will tell him.” 

“Are you two still getting on?” James was loading the cafe’s dishwasher, casting glances over his shoulder at Ezra. 

“Perfectly,” said Ezra. “He’s wonderful.” 

There was a chuckle from the table behind Ezra. “They’re stupidly in love with each other,” Anathema said. “I’m pretty sure Crowley’s got a notebook somewhere with Ezra’s name drawn on a page covered in little hearts.” 

Mark snorted. “That so?” 

Ezra glared at Anathema. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” 

“I just thought you’d downplayed things a bit,” Anathema said with a wink at Mark. “Had to jump in and clarify the situation for your dads.” 

Ezra rolled his eyes, rubbing at the seam on the inside of his trouser pocket. 

“He still being a gentleman?” James asked. “Taking care of my kid?”

“Of course,” Ezra said.

Mark raised his eyebrows at Anathema, who nodded. “He’s softer than you’d think. Bit of a marshmallow when it comes to Ezra, actually.” 

“I’m going to tell him you said that,” said Ezra. Anathema laughed again, bending over her laptop once more. 

“Bloke dresses like a wannabe Mick Jagger, but he brings Ezra treats and flowers and things all the bloody time,” Anathema said, pointedly not looking up at Ezra. 

Ezra sniffed and took another sip of his tea. “Because he’s wonderful. And he does _not_ dress like Mick Jagger.”

“He does, a bit,” said Anathema. Ezra huffed. 

“Jamie used to do that back when we were dating,” Mark said. He sounded like he’d been trying to make a casual comment and had overshot it a bit, and when Ezra glanced over at him, he was grinning. “The gift-giving thing.” 

“Still do, you arse,” James grumbled, swatting his husband on the shoulder with a dishtowel. 

“Yes, love,” said Mark. “And you’re very good at it.”

“Thank you.” James kissed Mark on the cheek before disappearing into the back room. 

“Seems like he’s still a keeper, then,” Mark said to Ezra. 

“He is.” 

Mark wiped down the wooden counter with efficient swipes of a rag. “A forever-type keeper, d’you think?” 

Ezra tapped his fingers against the side of his teacup, a blush rising in his cheeks. “I… well. I hope so.” 

“Good.” 

“I’m going to be your maid of honor, right?” Anathema asked. 

Ezra choked on his tea. 

“I’m going to be his maid of honor,” Anathema told Mark, smirking at Ezra. 

“You’re a pest,” Ezra said. 

“You love me,” Anathema said. 

“I might,” Ezra said huffily.

“You do.” 

“Yes, alright,” Ezra said, waving a hand dismissively in Anathema’s direction. “I love you, and you’re my family, and _if_ Crowley and I get married, you can be in the wedding.” 

“Good,” said Anathema. 

The bell over the door chimed, and Ezra turned to see Crowley striding toward him, a small bouquet of roses in his left hand. 

“Hi,” Crowley said to no one in particular, face splitting into his crooked grin. 

“Hey,” said Mark. “Good to see you, mate.” 

“Hi, Crowley,” Anathema said. 

“Hi, Nat.” This nickname was relatively new, given to Anathema by Newt (who had been waking up in the morning in Ezra's flat with increasing regularity over the past few months), and Crowley had picked it up as well. 

Crowley wrapped an arm around Ezra’s middle and kissed the top of his head, setting the roses down on the counter. “And hello, there.” 

“Hello,” Ezra squeaked. 

“Brought you something from work.” 

Ezra hummed. “They’re beautiful.” 

“They’re okay,” Crowley said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve changed up the soil in the greenhouse, so they’ll probably be better in future, but.” 

“I love them,” Ezra said, reaching across Crowley’s body to squeeze his hand. “Thank you, dearest.” 

“Welcome, angel.” 

James emerged from the backroom and gave Crowley a little wave. Upon seeing the flowers on the counter, he smiled and said, “Good man.” 

Crowley’s cheeks turned an impressively bright shade of red, and he mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. 

“Tea, Crowley?” Mark asked. 

“Uh,” said Crowley. “Sure, yeah.” 

“Chai?” asked James, already reaching for the tin. “With sugar and almond milk?” 

Ezra buried his smile in Crowley’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of fresh-cut flowers and spice that clung to Crowley’s overshirt. James and Mark knew Crowley’s order, had it memorized, and that made Ezra happier than he’d thought it would. 

Crowley blinked at Mark and James, a smile of his own tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Got it in one.”

He slipped away from Ezra’s side, already reaching for his wallet as he walked toward the register. He pulled out a folded note and dropped it in the tip jar before returning to the end of the counter and sliding his hand into Ezra’s. 

“You seem to be quite the generous tipper,” Ezra teased. 

Crowley made a happy sound in the back of his throat. “Someone told me once that giving good tips makes me a keeper.” 

“That it does,” said Mark as he set Crowley’s tea down on the counter and pushed it toward him. 

Anathema’s laugh filled the cafe once more. “Told you he’s soft.” 

Crowley’s honey-brown eyes narrowed, and he turned to face Anathema. “You what?” 

“Oh, come off it,” Anathema teased. “You know you’re soft.” 

“‘M bloody _not,_ ” Crowley said, but his ears turned pink anyway. 

“Not sure you’ve got a leg to stand on there, mate,” James said helpfully. 

“I’m not _soft,_ ” Crowley protested, and he looked so adorably flustered that Ezra couldn’t stop himself from leaning up to kiss the corner of Crowley’s jaw. 

“Sure,” said Mark. “You sang to my kid in my living room while you danced with him, and you brought him flowers, and you’re still trying to impress us, but nah. Not soft, you.” 

“Nn,” Crowley said. “Angel?” 

Ezra kissed his jaw again. “You might be a little bit soft, my dear.” 

“This is slander,” Crowley said. “I should sue.” 

Ezra’s laugh mingled with his family’s, and he stroked his fingers across Crowley’s knuckles in a soothing motion. 

“I love you,” Ezra said. “Softness included.” 

Crowley made another “Ngh” sound, but he didn’t protest any further. He ducked his head down and planted a kiss in Ezra’s curls, sharp nose bumping the top of Ezra’s head. 

The conversation shifted away from Crowley then, turning toward questions about work and school, and Ezra was content to hold Crowley’s hand and watch the people he loved laugh and smile and tease each other. He found himself struck by the realization that this life, the one he’d found and built and made stronger, was a very good one. His family by blood had never understood him, had never really even tried to, and that was hard. It had been hard, and it still was, and it always would be. Ezra knew that. He’d broken free of some of their judgements and expectations, but the shadows of his past would follow him wherever he walked. He had some old wounds that had become scars, but they were a part of him. 

And his family now, _this_ family, didn’t care. Crowley knew what he needed when he got overstimulated, and Mark and James never asked him to sit still, and Anathema had proven time and time again that she’d come to Ezra’s defense at the first sign of trouble. They didn’t mind that he struggled with eye contact or that he could ramble on about history or literature or art for hours on end if he was talking to someone who was willing to listen. Anathema was a merciless tease who considered Ezra to be her brother in all of the ways that mattered, and she was one of Ezra’s favorite people in the world. Mark and James had opened their home to Ezra almost immediately upon meeting him, and they’d given him a soft place to land. They took care of him, and they’d accepted Crowley as a part of Ezra’s life without question, and Ezra loved them for it. 

And then there was Crowley, tattooed and velvet-voiced and gentle-hearted. He knew what Ezra needed when the world became too much, and he didn’t mind that Ezra was constantly in motion. He let Ezra play with the hems of his shirts and rub circles into his skin when they cuddled, and when they sat together on a sofa or a bench, he wasn’t bothered by the incessant bouncing of Ezra’s legs. He took care of Ezra with soft kisses and kind words and warm smiles, and Ezra tried to take care of him, too. 

“You okay?” Crowley’s voice broke through Ezra’s thoughts, low and smoky. He was frowning down at Ezra, keeping a firm pressure on Ezra’s hand. James and Mark were busy behind the counter, talking amongst themselves as they prepared teas and coffees. Anathema was squinting at her computer screen, muttering something to herself. “We can go if you need to. Take a walk, get some space.” 

“No,” Ezra said. “I’m just fine, my love.”

“You sure?” 

“Certain,” said Ezra, giving Crowley’s fingers a squeeze. “Just lost in thought.” 

“Mm,” Crowley said. “Anything I should know about?” 

Ezra pushed himself up onto his toes and kissed Crowley on the cheek. “Yes, actually.” 

“Oh?” 

“I’m afraid I’m rather hopelessly in love with you,” Ezra said, and Crowley’s expression brightened. “Just in case you’d forgotten.” 

“Funny coincidence,” said Crowley. “I’m in love with you, too.” 

“That’s a stroke of good fortune, then,” Ezra teased. 

“Would be a bit awkward otherwise, wouldn’t it?” 

Ezra laughed. “Quite.”

It was a good life and a beautiful one, and Ezra refused to let it go.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue set five years into the future. Ezra and Crowley are married, and everything is soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, then! 
> 
> I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to finish this work -- life got in the way, but I'm doing better now. I hope you all have enjoyed this story, and I want you to know that I am incredibly thankful for every kudos and comment that this fic has gotten. You all have kept me going, and I can't thank you enough for that. I hope this chapter is full of enough tenderness to satisfy your heart's desire. 
> 
> Also, the song Crowley sings at the end of this chapter is You Are The Best Thing by Ray Lamontange, which can be found [here.](https://youtu.be/kuifvM_1N-4)
> 
> Warnings: language, mention of the WWII [history of the pink triangle](https://time.com/5295476/gay-pride-pink-triangle-history/)

_Five Years Later_

Ezra was going to be late for dinner. 

He’d tried to plan ahead, had set an alarm on his mobile and written himself a reminder which he had taped to the top of his desktop computer, but his failsafes had let him down. It wasn’t his fault that one of his students had written a truly phenomenal essay on the queer erasure of Achilles and Patroclus’ relationship throughout history, was it? He’d gotten sucked in, marking up the page with exclamation points and words of praise until the paper was nearly covered in red ink. The analysis had been wonderful, and there hadn’t been any grammar mistakes to boot. Ezra knew that university professors weren’t _supposed_ to pick favorite students, but. Well. When you had a student like _that,_ what other choice was there, really? 

So he was going to be late for dinner because he’d lost track of time while marking a student’s paper. To make matters worse, it seemed that the entire population of London had decided to take the Tube at the exact same moment as Ezra, which meant that he was pushing through crowds of people and saying a rather ridiculous number of “Pardon me”s and “Excuse me”s and “I’m sorry, may I get by?”s and trying not to get too overwhelmed by the lights and sounds and smells of the world. 

He had to get home for dinner, had to kiss Crowley and open a bottle of wine, and he wanted to be in control of himself when he did those things. 

Ezra hurried off of the crowded car, stepping quickly across the tiled floor of the station. Faint strains of guitar music joined the cacophony of sounds, and Ezra looked around for the source of it. 

He found it quickly enough. The busker was a dark-haired young person who looked to be about the same age as Ezra’s students (which was to say that they were five to seven years younger than Ezra himself, at his best estimate), and they were sitting on a foldable stool, plucking at the strings of a blue electric guitar. Their dark hair hung in their face, and when Ezra dropped a slightly lint-covered pound coin into their case, they looked up at him and smiled. 

“Thanks, mate,” said the busker. 

“You play wonderfully, my dear,” said Ezra. 

Ezra moved away, shoving himself back into the flow of foot traffic like a salmon in a stream. He’d been giving money to every busker he came across for years now, ever since Crowley hadn’t re-applied for his licence. There wasn’t exactly a reason for this aside from sentiment, but Ezra liked to do it. It made him think of a younger Crowley, as lanky and inked-up and smoky-voiced and beautiful as he was now, smiling at him from the side of an Underground station near University College. It made him think of Crowley sitting across from him in a near-empty Tube car, asking about the book in his hand. And it made him think of first dates and first kisses and long, swishing skirts, of nights spent under the stars and the smell of fresh-cut flowers. 

So Ezra kept change in the pockets of his trousers every day just in case he came across someone with talented fingers and a beautiful voice, because Crowley had been here, once. 

Ten minutes later, Ezra crossed the threshold of the flat he shared with Crowley, an apology ready on his lips. 

“I’m _so_ sorry I’m late, my dear,” Ezra called, tugging his coat off and hanging it on the hook near the door. “I was caught up at work — Wren wrote the _most_ delightful analysis of the queerness woven into _The Iliad,_ and I’m afraid I quite lost track of time.” 

Ezra rounded the corner and found Crowley in the kitchen, half-laughing with his hands on his hips. The blue apron around his neck had instructions; _‘Kiss the Cook’_ was written in bold white letters across Crowley’s chest, leaving Ezra with no choice but to oblige. 

“Hello, my darling,” Ezra said when he’d pulled away. He left his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, fingers toying with the short red curls at the base of Crowley’s skull. 

A few years back, Crowley had decided to grow his hair out, and he’d changed the style of it so many times since then that Ezra could barely keep track. At the moment, Crowley’s hair was cut fairly short around most of his head, but a pile of longer curls sat in an unruly mess on the top. Ezra liked to thread his fingers through the thick strands at night, playing with the different textures on the sides and back and top. It helped that Crowley seemed to lose his bone structure the moment that Ezra started to touch his hair; his lanky body lost its tension, its sharp edges finally folding and bending to mold themselves to Ezra’s curves. 

Ezra liked that safety, that warmth, that comfort. He couldn’t imagine that he’d ever tire of it. 

“Mm,” Crowley said, shivering beneath the gentle touches of Ezra’s fingertips as he pulled Ezra in by the hips. “Hi.”

“How was your day?” 

“Decent,” said Crowley. 

“Oh?” 

“Mm-hm.” Crowley nuzzled the top of Ezra’s head with his nose. “Good work day — got an order for a wedding in August for a couple whose floral needs are a bit ballistic, if I’m honest — but yeah. Just decent. Good side of decent.” 

Ezra made a considering noise and buried his nose in the hollow of Crowley’s chest. He’d been able to smell dinner as soon as he’d walked into the flat, the air filled with garlic and onion and some unidentifiable blend of herbs. The scent of it was clinging to Crowley’s clothes, too, resting on top of the smell of green things that Crowley carried with him everywhere. Slowly, Ezra breathed it in, and then he pushed himself up onto his toes to bring his lips to Crowley’s again.

“How about now?” Ezra asked. 

“‘S good,” Crowley said. “Very good.”

Ezra kissed the corner of Crowley’s mouth, right between his lips and the dimple in his cheek. Another kiss found its mark on the high point of Crowley’s sharp cheekbone. Another landed in front of Crowley’s ear, and Ezra felt Crowley shiver beneath his hands. 

“Now?” asked Ezra.

“Best day,” said Crowley. 

Ezra laughed at him, lacing their fingers together. He heard the silver of the wedding band on his fourth finger clink against the metal of the many rings on Crowley’s hand, a quiet tinkling sound that made Ezra’s heart skip a beat. 

“Every day with you’s the best day,” Crowley muttered. His lips brushed the skin of Ezra’s forehead like he was sealing the words there, pressing them into Ezra’s skin. “Angel.” 

Crowley’s left hand lifted away from Ezra’s waist and came to rest against his cheek. Crowley wore rings on all of his fingers, stacking them in different orders each day, but the silver band on the fourth finger of his left hand matched Ezra’s. They’d traded them on a rare sunny day in June, Crowley in a black suit jacket and knee-length skirt and Ezra in a white tuxedo. It had been a brilliant thing, a beautiful thing, and it had been one of the easiest things Ezra had ever done. He and Crowley had laughed their way down the aisle, their family and friends gathered along the side, and Ezra had said ‘I do’ before the officiant had actually finished asking if he would take Anthony Crowley to be his lawfully wedded husband, and it was perfect. 

So when Ezra said, “I love you, my dear,” he was thinking about the way it had felt to slide the wedding ring onto Crowley’s finger, to hold his hand as they ran down the aisle, to feel Crowley’s voice vibrating into his own chest when they danced together (clumsily, because Ezra was involved) at their reception. 

Crowley grinned, lopsided and gorgeous. “I love you, too.” 

*********

Over the years, Crowley’s skin had acquired more and more tattoos. Ezra liked to run his fingers over the lines, mapping Crowley’s body with his hands and feeling the thrum of Crowley’s pulse beneath his fingertips. 

The most recent tattoo was a sprig of lavender, done as one continuous delicate line that lay above Crowley’s right collarbone. Ezra liked that one, liked that it was queer and soft and lovely like the man whose skin bore it. There was a triangle beneath Crowley’s shoulder blades, fiery pink with a bold black outline, and Ezra liked the way it moved when Crowley flexed his back. A symbol of persecution and death had long since become a point of pride, emblazoned on flags and stitched or pinned onto clothing. On Crowley, it came to life. 

Crowley’s right wrist bore a pair of angel’s wings. When he took off his wedding band to work in the soil of Eden’s greenhouse, its place was filled by two thin black lines that were exactly the width of his ring. The snake that had been on Crowley’s left arm since the first day Ezra had seen him was still there, but the gaps between the curves of its body had been filled with bright flowers. Roses and lilacs, tulips and daisies, carnations and lilies. Crowley kept adding to the sleeve of ink, a new flower every season, and he was running out of room. 

“What will you do when you run out of space?” Ezra asked. He trailed his thumb over a yellow daisy, moved it across to brush across the scales of the snake. 

“Got more skin,” Crowley mumbled. “Whole other arm.” 

Ezra hummed and pressed a kiss to the hollow space at the base of Crowley’s throat. “And after that?” 

“ _You_ ’ve got skin,” Crowley said slyly. 

“How very dare you,” said Ezra. 

“Joking,” Crowley laughed. “Joking, I swear.” 

“Hmph.” Ezra was smiling, relaxed against Crowley’s chest. He was still following the lines of ink with his forefinger, memorizing the shape of Crowley a half-inch at a time. 

“I like you as you are,” Crowley said. “Liked the look of you years ago. Like the way you are now. I’ll like the way you are in a year, too. In a decade. In half a century.” 

Ezra kissed him squarely on the mouth, feeling the shape of those promises against his own lips.

“Hi,” said Crowley when they broke apart. “Handsome, you are. Good kisser, too.”

“You’re a terrible flirt, you know,” said Ezra. “You ought to keep that in check, or I may just fall in love with you.”

“We’re _married._ ” 

“Are we?” Ezra asked, voice laced with mock innocence.

“Angel,” said Crowley. 

“How ever did I manage to persuade a man like you to marry me?” 

Crowley blinked, his honey-colored eyes bright and warm. “By being you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. He stuck one hand in Ezra’s hair, weaving the curls between his fingers as he spoke. “You watched me play guitar in a dirty Tube station, and you looked at me like I was the most wonderful bloody thing you’d ever seen. And you gave your own stupid book away to a classmate who didn’t have one, and you took me to tea at a place you knew we’d be safe, and you told me I was beautiful when I turned up in a skirt. You let me talk about the stars, and you showed me how to help you when the world gets loud, and you just… you were _you,_ and you loved me like I didn’t think I’d ever be loved.” 

“Goodness, Crowley,” Ezra said. “I was being facetious, darling, I didn’t mean for—”

Crowley shook his head, and the rest of Ezra’s sentence fell flat on his tongue. 

“You’ve made me forget there was ever a time when I thought that love was for other people,” Crowley said. “And you’re beautiful and clever, and I fucking _love_ you, angel.” 

“You should be loved,” Ezra said shakily. “You should be loved every day for the rest of your life in exactly the way that you want to be loved.” 

“Then love me, angel.” A smile was crawling over Crowley’s lips, turning them upward at the corners. “Husband. Love me every day for the rest of our lives.”

Ezra nearly laughed, then, his hand stilling on Crowley’s shoulder. He’d run out of lines to follow, and his fingers were resting against bare pale skin. As if he’d ever stop loving Crowley. As if there was a way he could. 

“I will, my dearest love,” Ezra said, “if you will.” 

Crowley did laugh, a sunbeam of a thing that knocked the air out of Ezra’s lungs. 

“Of fucking course I will,” said Crowley. “Don’t know how not to.”

Ezra snuggled in impossibly closer to Crowley, endlessly-moving fingers tapping a beat into the space over Crowley’s heart. It wasn’t long before Crowley started to sing, fitting a tune to the rhythm made by Ezra’s hand. Making music with Ezra, turning Ezra’s need for motion and touch into something for them both. 

“You are the best thing,” Crowley sang in a low voice, “that’s ever happened to me.”

For as long as Ezra could remember, the world had been big and loud and bright, and there were days when it was impossible to handle. The world scared him sometimes, became too much all at once, and Ezra would drown in it. 

But then there had been Anathema, and there had been James and Mark, and there had been _Crowley._ Crowley, who could make the world small again, make it dark and warm and quiet, an entire universe of just two people. Crowley, who had magic in his fingers and power in his voice, who loved Ezra enough to hold him until everything was alright again. Crowley, who was safe, who was strong, who was everything. 

“You are the best thing,” Crowley was still singing. “You are the best thing. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

_This,_ Ezra thought to himself, _is the kind of love I've spent my life reading about, and **he** is my happy ending. _

Ezra watched Crowley smile his way through the end of the song, felt him hum the final notes of the melody, and he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've recently posted a completed Fake Dating AU, which can be found [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552917/chapters/69970959) My newest project is one I'm very excited about; it's a crossover with another novel (which does not have to have been read for the story to make sense, I swear) and can be found [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705290/chapters/67806458)
> 
> If you choose to read these or any of my other works, I'd love to hear from you in the comments! Y'all's words of kindness and praise mean the world to me. 
> 
> All my love, gratitude, and affection,  
> Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr!](https://hope-inthedark.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, if you would like to make any sort of creative work (art, podfic, whatever) based on this or any of my stories, consider this blanket permission to do so! I only ask that you would tag me in your work so that I can see it and share it! Thank you for being here, and thank you for reading. I hope you are having the best day!


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